The Last of Their Kind
by DefiantButClassy
Summary: When one of the Enterprise's promising young officers goes missing, she leaves behind a trail of clues that only serve to deepen the mystery. Kirk and company must track her down before an old acquaintance finds her first. Rated T only because this crew can swear like sailors sometimes.
1. Chapter 1

_USS Enterprise_

 _Stardate 5873_

Out here, along the fraught and sterile buffer zone between Tholian and Federation space, those who dared to tempt the Fates lived lonely and hardscrabble lives on largely-overlooked colony planets, visited only by the occasional trader and often bumped to the bottom of the patrol rosters by Starfleet vessels to which there was always something more exciting to attend: a new skirmish with the Klingons or a dust-up with the Romulans would invariably take precedence over an assignment to the Tholian border. The xenophobic beings on the other side of this no man's land did not seek out provocation, and since the _Enterprise's_ near-disastrous visit not a peep had been heard. And so the Federation was content to monitor this part of space remotely, through a series of small but powerful buoys positioned along the fishhook-shaped border in regular intervals like a string of old-fashioned Christmas tree lights.

It must be noted that the Federation could at times exhibit a surprising degree of efficiency and forethought, and so these mechanical sentries were designed to transmit a steady stream of data about far more than the relative lack of activity from the mysterious and exotic neighbors they dutifully monitored: the buoys collected and sent back all manner of information about local space phenomena, everything from the mundane to the bizarre, albeit far more of the former than the latter. This data was dumped into a central dataset and added to the queue of records to be reviewed and indexed initially by the powerful computing systems housed jointly by the Vulcan and Starfleet Science Academies. Any observations falling outside established parameters would be flagged for review by one of the Academies' graduate students or research fellows; or, from time to time, by a certain science officer posted to the USS _Enterprise_ , on those occasions during which he experienced a lull in his duties and required additional tasks on which to focus in order to maintain maximum processing productivity.

And so it was that this science officer happened across a report of an unusually intense and prolonged occurrence of increased solar flares originating from a red dwarf type star in the Resliv system, which skirted just along the edge of the Tholian and Federation buffer and, according to the scant records in the database, was uninhabited by any sentient lifeforms. The flares were of sufficient magnitude to destroy two of the buoys in the star's immediate vicinity and reduce three more to operating in safe mode only. Finding no other relevant connections of interest in his existing mental schema, the science officer filed the data point away for future consideration, and rose from his desk, noting a most illogical twinge of anticipation at the imminent chess game in which he estimated a ninety-four point three percent chance that he would defeat the ship's chief medical officer. He then sternly reminded himself of the doctor's propensity for reckless, unpredictable, and typically but not always game-fatal moves; and burned-out buoys already placed in their appropriate memory space, he focused the intensity of his thoughts on maintaining rationality in the face of upcoming unbridled emotion.

It was only later that evening, still stung by his statistically-unlikely defeat and unable to slip into a restful meditation, that he realized an obligation unfulfilled: in the dusky amber darkness of his quarters he rose from his bunk and leaned over his computer to flick the monitor on. After sending a maintenance alert to the starbase nearest the Resliv system to request repairs of the damaged buoys, he decided, with equal parts relief and reproach, to attribute his unexpected game loss to the subconscious distraction of that task earlier left undone. That resolved, his mind finally quieted and he settled into a most satisfying meditative state.


	2. Chapter 2

_Deep Space Three_

 _Three months later_

 _Stardate 5960_

 _0321 hours_

I shot a furtive glance both ways down the corridor and, confirming it was empty of anyone who might have a vested interest in preventing me from doing what I was about to do, slowed as I neared my destination and then stopped in front of an imposing double doorway. It was transparent, save for a large white and red sign plastered across the center of the left-hand panel:

DOCKING BAY 4

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

I hesitated, a now-familiar squeeze of dread blooming in my chest, and paused to gasp for breath. Pushing down the anxiety, and shifting my knapsack to my left arm, I reached out and tapped the entry code he'd given me into the security pad, fingers trembling, and held my breath until the door slid open with a mechanical _whoosh_. I stepped inside and blinked in the light. The placid silence of the corridor was replaced with the sounds and activities of a bustling cargo area. My senses were assaulted by an unpleasant bouquet of fuel, oils, and sweat. Voices and sounds bounced off the bare walls and deck, creating a cacophony of noise that made me wince. Workers moved with purpose through the area, carrying containers and guiding anti grav skiffs with heavier loads, while pilots and techs made repairs and shouted back and forth as they worked through pre-flight checks. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Move! You are blocking the entrance, human!"

I jumped at the command, shouted in my left ear by a Tellarite with an aggrieved expression on his face as he pushed past me. I muttered an apology, which earned me only a snort of impatience, then slid into an alcove to the side of the entrance and scanned the bay, standing on the tips of my toes and squinting, the lighting here in a wide spectrum that made my head throb. Small ships and shuttlecraft, belonging to private traders and merchants who moved goods to and fro across the galactic commercial network, were lined up against the bulkheads in orderly rows. A wide runway bisected the cavernous room, leading to massive bay doors at the far end. I spotted the figure I was searching for, and my head filled with the sound of rushing blood. I took a deliberate step forward, eyes straight ahead, and made my way to his craft, nestled in between a shiny, sleek yacht and a tiny, space-battered cutter.

"There you are," the man growled, a slight brogue softening his tone. "Thought you'd chickened out." He gave me an appraising glance, nodding in approval. "Now that's more appropriate for your purpose," he said, indicating my loose trousers and sturdy jacket. "You can put your bag in there." He gestured toward the open shuttle. It was as nondescript a craft as I'd ever encountered, a little smaller than the old J class cargo shuttles, just a small boxy affair built for utility rather than beauty. A registry number was painted alongside the hatch, with the ship's name, _Heart's Desire_ , below in a flowing script, the only visible concession to aesthetics.

I leaned into the hatch and tossed my bag and a small duffel onto a pile of crates, taking the opportunity to glance around the interior as my eyes adjusted to the shadows. It was tidy but as cramped as I had expected; there was no chance of affording a luxury cruise with my means: you couldn't exactly call up a travel agent to inquire about AWOL Specials. But it would suffice. _Soon this will be over,_ I thought, and blocked out the tiny protesting voice in my head that tried to squirm itself into my consciousness.

I started to back out of the small craft, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him hold up his hand. "Don't bother. I'll be requesting clearance to depart in just a few minutes. Go ahead and get settled in." He secured the panel to the compartment he'd been working in and wiped his hands on a tattered bit of cloth, which he then stuffed into his pocket. He turned to pick up his toolkit, then looked back at me with a frown. "I guess I need to know what to call you, lass. Certainly not _lieutenant_ anymore?"

His words hit me harder than I'd expected, and the realization that I was about to end my career—not to mention irrevocably altering the course of my life—coupled with the awareness that I would never again hear the cheery lilt of the _Enterprise's_ chief engineer, or Chekov's endearing mispronunciations, or bask in a rare smile from Chapel, suddenly blurred my vision and made my throat ache. I blinked and cursed myself silently as a tear escaped down my cheek. He pretended not to see it and busied himself with double-checking the panel lock instead.

"Tara," I said after a moment, forcing a steadiness into my voice that I did not feel. "Just Tara."

He nodded once, briskly. "All right then, just Tara, off we go. Buckle up."


	3. Chapter 3

_Heart's Desire_

 _Stardate 5960_

 _0730 hours_

I slept in fits and starts, lying on a pallet on the deck. He'd warned me ahead of time that there was no proper sleeping space for me, so I had brought along a small sleeping mat and I lay there now, feeling the thrum of the engines around me, head propped on my knapsack as a makeshift pillow. I had become used to harsh living conditions as a child, so this didn't bother me, but after dozing off and waking with a start for the third time, I decided my brain was not going to allow my body to fully sleep, and that was probably for the better, considering what would likely happen if I did. I rose, smoothing my tunic and trousers, my rough fingernails catching on the cloth, marveling at how different it felt to wear something other than a uniform. I had spent the remainder of my meager savings—after paying off the pilot of this ship—on supplies and clothing for this trip, suspecting that a minidress and knee high boots would not serve me well where I was going.

I made my way to the front of the craft, just a few steps, really. "May I sit here?" I asked hesitantly from the entrance to the cockpit. He looked up at me and nodded, then reached out to adjust an instrument.

"Sure. I could use some company."

I settled into the copilot chair and studied the viewscreen. Astronavigation was certainly not something I would list on my résumé under "skills," and as was par for the course, the stars streaming by took on no familiar arrangements or guideposts for me. I observed the starfield nonetheless, as if I knew what I was looking at, while also trying to catch glimpses of the man without overtly staring at him. Our sole previous encounter, over a drink in a dark corner of a bar on the seedier side of the space station, had by necessity been brief and surreptitious, focused around destination and the exchange of credits. I studied his features for moment, taking in his slightly elongated ears and deeply set eyes, then looked quickly away when he turned and caught my eye. He raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"You're not human, are you?" It came out before I could stop it.

His laugh was sudden and loud. "Well, you're one to talk, aren't you?" He glanced meaningfully at my eyes, larger and rounder than the standard human issue, then at my nearly-translucent skin. _Alabaster_ , Emmalin had called it. That was a nicer word than some of my age-mates had come up with.

I flushed and looked away. "I'm sorry, that was rude," I replied automatically, and bent my head so that a curtain of my hair concealed my burning cheeks. It was something I'd learned to do at a very young age, when it became apparent that whomever had raised me before my foundling days had not been overly concerned with social niceties. Even now, after years of care in the civilized (that word always caused bile to bubble up inside me) universe, and bending to the conformity of the Academy, inappropriate things still fell unexpectedly out of my mouth.

He chuckled, and there was no rancor in it. "No, it's all right. My mother was human, and she's the one who raised me. My father was something else, but good old mum was never very clear about exactly _what_ he was, and I've never cared enough to dig that deeply into it."

Well, I could certainly relate to _that_.

"I forget about how some of you Starfleet types don't really get out that much. Ironic, really. Not as much _boldly going_ as one might expect. Still mostly humans at the Academy?"

I nodded. "Yes, though every year there's a little more diversity." I hesitated, unsure how much to say to this stranger. "I'm—I _was_ on my first deep space assignment, on the _Enterprise,_ so this"—I gestured vaguely at the viewscreen—"is pretty new to me."

He whistled under his breath. "You gave that up for…for what? Never mind," he stopped himself. "That's none of my business." He turned back to the instrument panel and waved his hand over a display screen. The silence felt awkward now, and I shifted in my seat, searching for a way to change the subject.

"So what do I call you?" I asked.

He pondered for a moment, longer than I expected, then said, "Brodie. That'll do, lass."

 _Brodie_. My limited familiarity with Earth naming conventions gave me pause here—was that a first name? A surname? A nickname? I decided I was overthinking the issue. "All right. How long will it take to get there, Brodie?"

He reached to the center of the control panel and pulled up a screen that I recognized from my emergency pilot training (which I'd very nearly failed after crashing the simulator and killing all my passengers no fewer than four times) as a course plot. I squinted but couldn't make out the schematic from my position.

"Looks like, oh, just about forty-seven hours at this speed."

Alarm filled me and I nearly rose from the chair. "But won't you need to rest along the way? Are there waypoints?" _Please, please, don't ask me to take over the controls._

He looked at me, no trace of concern in his features. "No, I can easily stay awake and alert for far longer than that. I guess that's one good thing I inherited from father dear," he said cheerily.

I breathed out in relief. _Forty-seven hours. Less than two days before I can find this…this whatever it is, and end it._ I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair.

* * *

 _USS Enterprise_

 _Stardate 5960_

 _0745 hours_

Kirk blew on his coffee and watched the steam waft away as he surveyed the officers' mess. It was early for most of his people and ending a shore leave stint at 0730 two days prematurely had, not surprisingly, resulted in a somewhat sluggish and bleary-eyed crew, his chief medical officer being no exception.

"Whose idea was this, Jim?" McCoy asked for the third time and rubbed at his eyes.

"Komack," the captain replied patiently. "Some kind of emergency evac on Iliria IV."

"Right. It's always Komack, isn't it?" He sighed and gazed forlornly at the chrono on the wall. "Fourteen minutes now until I have to drag my ass outta this chair and be all doctorly for a bunch of minor injuries and hangovers resulting from the ingestion of approximately twenty-two different known and unknown recreational substances, and at least a handful of nascent infections of crew members who weren't paying attention during my pre-leave briefing about _taking precautions_ , damnit," he groused as he picked up his fork and knife.

Kirk leaned his chair back and watched the doctor saw and stab at his pancakes in silence, knowing that in his current state of mind, any attempt at commiseration would only fan the flames of his foul mood.

The comm whistled. "Captain Kirk," came the clear, and _thank the gods_ , _alert,_ sound of his communication officer's voice. He reached to the wall behind him and flipped the comm switch.

"Yes, Uhura. What is it?"

"Sir," she replied, an almost-undetectable note of concern making his ears prick up, "transporter room reports that one of our crew has not yet boarded."

He sat his chair back completely to the deck and lowered his voice. "Who is it, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, it's Lieutenant Solorio. She's not answering her communicator."

Kirk shot a questioning glance at McCoy, who was frozen with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. "One of yours, right, Bones?"

The doctor lowered the fork back to his plate, brow furrowed. "Yes," he said slowly. "She's in my biochem lab."

"She have a punctuality problem?"

"No. No, quite the opposite." His deep blue eyes clouded with concern. "She's usually on-shift a little early, getting things organized and prepped."

Kirk turned back to the comm. "Uhura," he continued, "notify starbase security of the situation. Ask them to begin a sweep of the area around bravo sector, decks B-2 through B-9, and to begin reviewing security recordings for anything suspicious. Also alert our security team and have them send down a team to assist in the search."

"Aye, sir."

He flipped the unit off. "Her first trip out?"

"Mmm hmm." The doctor lifted his mug of coffee and frowned at the contents.

Kirk gave his CMO a reassuring smile. "You know how this goes, then. She probably stayed over with someone down there and overslept. Maybe forgot her communicator and didn't know leave was cut short. So think up some minor but sufficiently obnoxious disciplinary action that won't go on her record. _This_ time," he qualified.

McCoy nodded, but his previous waspishness was replaced with a sense of unsettledness. The captain's narrative didn't match up with what he knew about the crewmember in question. "Even so, searching the base could take days. Komack won't be happy."

Kirk sighed. "I know, Bones. I know."


	4. Chapter 4

_Deep Space Three_

 _Stardate 5960_

 _0900 hours_

The transporter effect faded as reality re-materialized around them. Kirk and McCoy stepped down from the pad and the captain looked expectantly at the _Enterprise_ security chief, who was waiting in the room to brief him.

"Any news, Giotto?"

The chief shook his head. "Nothing definitive, sir. Her comm unit was located in the botanical gardens a few minutes ago. It was turned off. Starbase staff recall seeing her in a bar last night, but the security footage from the corridor only shows her entering alone at 2035 and then leaving alone at 2055. They're doing a facial recognition scan of all footage as we speak, and our team is performing a comprehensive search of living areas in section bravo as well."

"Door to door?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Doctor McCoy and I will be meeting with the base commander, then—"

His communicator chirped, and he flipped it open. "Kirk here."

" _Captain."_ The steady baritone of his first officer came through. He had left his ship in the sure hands of the Vulcan and had not expected a situation requiring his input to arise so quickly.

"Yes, Mister Spock. What is it?"

" _We have received a transmission from Admiral Komack at Headquarters. He is inquiring as to the status of our progress toward Iliria IV_."

He glanced at McCoy, and the doctor's quirked eyebrow told him that their thoughts were in accordance: _Well, that was quicker than expected._

He cleared his throat and deliberated before replying. "Spock," he said in measured tones, "in your latest status report, you indicated lingering instability in our long-range communication systems—the ones we were to have repaired during our layover here, had our time not been cut short—did you not?"

There was a long pause from the _Enterprise_ , before Spock replied in a combination of confusion and concern. " _No, sir, I indicated—_ "

"You indicated," Kirk cut him off casually, "that it may be difficult to receive and transmit subspace communications temporarily, but that repairs are expected to be completed within approximately—" he paused, sifting through possible scenarios and outcomes "—three standard hours. Please send a squirt to HQ with that information and advise that at that time, we will update the admiral as to our status."

An even longer pause stretched out over the open channel, as Kirk willed from great distance that his literal-minded, by-the-book first officer would read between the lines. McCoy bounced on his toes beside him, nervous energy radiating out unchecked, adding to Kirk's edginess.

" _Yes, sir_ ," the Vulcan responded finally, cautiously, and Kirk let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. " _I understand. I shall…make those reports and advise Admiral Komack by subspace squirt of the situation._ "

"Thank you, Mister Spock. I know we're all doing our best to fulfill competing priorities. I appreciate your discretion."

" _Yes, sir._ Enterprise _out_."

Kirk knew that he would pay for this later, in the form of a protracted late-night philosophical discussion around ethics and morality, and how the needs of the one do not outweigh the needs of the many, and that McCoy would be there too, a handle of bourbon to soften his arguments, and there would be no consensus but much debate. And also that secretly he considered that to be not a consequence, but a benefit.

"Sir." Giotto interrupted his thoughts, looking up from his tricorder. "It looks like base security have found something. They're asking to see you."

The Security monitoring room was cramped and stuffy, the walls lined with screens showing live feed from cameras across the station. A single desk in the center of the layout was occupied by an ensign, whose multiple-eyed tentacles waved past the video feeds in a methodical fashion. One tentacle, sheathed in a red sleeve decorated with rank insignia, extracted itself from its task and waved at the newcomers over what Kirk took to be its shoulder.

"Sirs. The doctor will see you now." Its mechanical voice projection was pleasant enough as it pointed an appendage toward a doorway at the rear of the narrow room.

"The… _who?_ " He shot a glance at McCoy, who shrugged, and then back at the ensign, and decided to chalk it up to a glitch in its interface software.

He nodded. "Thank you, Ensign. My security team has beamed back up to the ship but wishes to convey their appreciate for your assistance." He made his way to the doorway, McCoy trailing behind, and paused for the door to slide open. Then he was momentarily struck speechless and stopped in his tracks. McCoy nearly stepped on his heels, then after only the briefest hesitation he slid sideways past Kirk and strolled into the room, extending his hand.

"Doctor Noel," he said warmly, filling the void, for which Kirk was eternally grateful.

"Doctor McCoy," she replied, returning his smile before turning to Kirk.

"Captain. So nice to see you again."

She was still ethereally beautiful, all chestnut curls and dimples, and that impish glint in her caramel-colored eyes. The unfortunate events at Tantalus V notwithstanding, not to mention his conflicted recollection of their post-Christmas party encounter, Kirk would have accepted her transfer request back to the _Enterprise_ in a heartbeat. But he knew her desire to depart for another assignment, shortly after that nightmarish experience on the penal colony, had been in her best interest, and in his as well.

"What are you doing _here_ , Doctor?" He knew immediately, at the briefest widening of her eyes, that it had come out more bluntly than he intended. "I mean," he amended, with a chuckle and a conciliatory smile, "we certainly weren't expecting to see an old acquaintance out here in deep space. Last I heard, you transferred to the _Reliant_ for a long-term investigative research project."

She nodded and gestured at a grouping of chairs in the sparsely-furnished, narrow office. "Please, sit." She chose the chair closest to the wall, facing the doorway. Kirk and McCoy settled into a small sofa across from her. Kirk noticed with some surprise the lieutenant commander stripes on her uniform and wondered what she had done to advance so quickly.

"Yes, I spent some time on _Reliant_ after I left _Enterprise,_ mapping out crew responses to variations in mission intensity and frequency. It was…" She paused and stared into a space above their heads before continuing, "exceedingly boring."

McCoy gave a small snort. Kirk suppressed a smile and adopted a direct tone.

"So here you are on a deep space station, and here I am trying to find a missing crew member."

"Yes." Her demeanor was suddenly all business as she reached behind to retrieve a tablet from her desk. "I'm serving in a quasi-security role for the time being, Captain, working with Starfleet Intelligence to gain background in Starfleet procedures in preparation for an upcoming study in civilian prisoner risk analysis."

McCoy sensed rather than saw the captain's twitch and shot him an inquiring look, but Kirk's gaze did not waver from Noel's.

"As such, I've been job shadowing the base's backup security chief and was assigned to the initial review of your case. Chief m'Lar's is currently…indisposed."

That sent McCoy's eyebrow up. "That's quite a shift from rehabilitative therapy," he remarked.

She tilted her head at him, expression unreadable and eyes wide, and he felt a tingle at the back of his neck that he had learned in his years in the Fleet to ignore only at great peril. He gave another glance at Kirk and felt a weight settle into his gut at the impassive mask the captain's face had assumed. _He feels it, too._

"Is it, Doctor?" she asked finally, turning her attention to Kirk. "What exactly is your interest in Lieutenant Solorio, and what was her role on your ship?'

He leaned back and gave her a small smile that didn't leave his lips. "My interest is in having a complete complement aboard my ship, as I'm sure you can understand, as well as ensuring the wellbeing of my crew. When one of my crew disappears, it's my responsibility to locate them. I leave the staffing of sciences to my experts, so I'll defer to Doctor McCoy on that."

McCoy shifted next to him and cleared his throat, and Kirk ignored the irritation he felt radiating out from his CMO.

"After graduating from the Academy, Lieutenant Solorio earned a doctorate in biochemistry from the University of the Southwest in North America," McCoy said. "One of the most prestigious programs on Earth, as you are doubtless aware. She then completed some post-doctorate work before applying for a starship position. I saw that we had common interests and requested her assignment to the _Enterprise._ "

Noel leaned forward, uncomfortably close to him. "Common interests?" she asked, smiling at him with wide eyes.

He swallowed, still unsure of where or in what direction to attribute his uneasiness. "Yes, Helen." He used her first name deliberately, hoping that it might leverage him some advantage in this game that seemed to be playing out without his consent. "Her specialty is in cytotoxins. A very relevant and current area of investigation these days."

"These days…you mean, as we advance our knowledge and research against new enemies?"

He felt Kirk stiffen and his own jaw clench. "I said no such thing, Helen," he replied without inflection. She smiled at him again just for a second, showing her teeth. The image of a Rigelian eel suddenly appeared in his mind's eye, and he shuddered almost imperceptibly.

"Noted. Any indication recently that she was unhappy or distracted in her duties? Any withdrawal from normal activities or evidence of paranoia or depression?"

"No, none." McCoy replied shortly.

"Would you have known her well enough or interacted with her frequently enough to have detected and assessed those conditions?"

He bristled at her tone. "Am I being interrogated here, Helen?" he demanded, eyes flashing.

Kirk held up a hand. "Doctors, please. We all have the same concern—finding my missing crewmember. Of course, we have no reason to be suspicious of anyone at this point, right? So let's stay focused."

At that, Noel gave him a narrow glance and then nodded slowly. "Very well. I'll bring up the security footage we have now. It's visual only, but self-evident, as you'll see." She swiped her hand across the tablet and a three-dimensional image appeared between them. In the grainy projection, Kirk could make out the figure of Solorio, frozen mid-stride in a wide corridor, the straps of two bags criss-crossed over her shoulders.

"Where is that?" he asked.

"The civilian wing." Noel tapped her tablet again, and the still image came to life. The ghostly, translucent image of the lieutenant strode soundlessly through the hallway, glanced in both directions, then came to a stop in front of a set of transparent doors. Kirk could just make out the signage on the left-hand panel.

DOCKING BAY 4

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

The image of Solorio hesitated, then tapped at the entry pad. The doors opened, and harsh light spilled out, casting her figure into relief as she stepped inside. The footage froze again. There was silence until McCoy cleared his throat.

"That's it?"

Noel nodded.

"So, she entered a commercial docking bay and fell off the radar, so to speak?" he asked, inflection unreadable. Noel gave him a long look, and there was an edge to her voice and a knot along her jawline that hadn't been there two years ago.

"We aren't allowed to have cameras in certain civilian areas. That's a base policy negotiated with the trade federation, in exchange for regular deliveries of necessities out here in the middle of nowhere. There's a de facto _don't ask, don't tell_ credo here, gentlemen, in order to ensure survival," she said tersely. "The fleet is still not at full capacity, as you both know, especially when it comes to anything other than patrol ships and Constellation class, so we depend on private merchants to fill the gap, and we look the other way when necessary. We've searched the ships that are still docked, and she's not there. She could have hopped onto any of the approximately three dozen ships that have departed in the last twelve hours or so, and we have no way of knowing which one. She's likely light years away by now."

Kirk gave McCoy a sidelong glance and saw the concern he felt inside clearly telegraphed across his CMO's features. The doctor opened his mouth, but Kirk narrowed his eyes, and McCoy sat back.

"What's base protocol in this kind of situation?" the captain asked.

Noel looked from him to McCoy, and the doctor felt her demeanor shift, her voice taking on a vaguely fervent tone. "That's a component of what I'm studying, Captain. The lieutenant is considered a deserter now, and subject to court martial proceedings, but since these actions occurred on a quasi-civilian facility, her case is an outlier. I'll continue my investigation here, freeing you to embark on your urgent mission to Iliria. We'll start tracking down the ships that have recently departed and interviewing their crew."

"I'm sure we can spare a few hours to assist your team in their search, Doctor—" he began, but she held up a hand and gave him a perfunctory smile.

"That's very generous, Captain, but Admiral Komack has already been in touch, and indicated that your priority is to continue to Iliria at your earliest convenience. Sir."

Kirk willed his jaw not to clench, not in front of her. He forced a half-smile. "Very well, Doctor. I'll verify Admiral Komack's orders—" he ignored her raised eyebrow, "and proceed from there. I trust you will keep us informed as to the progress of your investigation?"

She gazed at him, unblinking. "Captain, perhaps I wasn't clear. This case is no longer within your jurisdiction. Lieutenant Solorio is clearly away without authorization and will be charged as such-or perhaps with desertion, depending on our findings-if and when she is located."

"She's been gone less than twelve hours, Helen! You can't be serious," McCoy exclaimed and stared at her, aghast, but she did not respond. The doctor turned to Kirk. " _Jim_ —"

Kirk held up his hand at McCoy's protest, and held Noel's gaze. She regarded him, calm and unblinking.

"Captain," she responded, ignoring McCoy's outburst, "if the lieutenant is located and recovered, her fate will lie with Headquarters at that point."

 _Recovered._ That word sent a chill through him, for reasons he couldn't quite elucidate at the moment, but perhaps for the sterility of it. He nodded, stood, and turned on his heel, making his way toward the doorway deliberately. McCoy hesitated, then rose and followed just behind, his pent-up frustration clearly conveyed in his heavier-than-usual footfalls.

As soon as they passed the ensign and the door to the security section closed behind them, Kirk turned and gripped McCoy's shoulder, freezing the doctor's indignant protest.

" _Not a word_ ," he growled, and McCoy flinched, then nodded as Kirk drew his communicator from his side.

" _Enterprise,_ two to beam up."


	5. Chapter 5

"What the hell, Jim?" McCoy exploded, his words coming fading in and out before they even finished materializing. Kirk stepped down from the platform without looking back and strode directly to the transporter room doors. "Mister Kyle, have Commander Spock meet me in the briefing room."

"Aye, sir."

"Jim, she went behind your back to Komack—"

Kirk cut him off again. "You too, Bones."

* * *

Kirk stood at the head of the briefing table, leaning against it, knuckles white against the tabletop, and began without preamble.

"Spock, I know you've been privy to some of the same information I have lately, coming out of Starfleet Intelligence. Regarding research and treatment of suspected terroristic entities."

Spock blinked and nodded as he looked up at Kirk. "Yes, sir."

"It seems our former psychiatric specialist, Helen Noel, is working on a project related to those efforts, and has taken an interest in the disappearance of Lieutenant Solorio."

Spock steepled his hands and pondered. It took longer than McCoy would have liked to parse the meaning of Jim's words, but then he looked at the captain in astonishment. "Now just wait a goddamn minute, Jim! Will someone explain to me what the hell is going on? You think Helen is in some sort of rogue Intelligence unit now?" He thought uneasily of that warning tingle at the base of his neck.

Kirk flashed back to their time at Tantalus, willing his mind not to recoil from the blinding hot edges of that memory. How Noel had been thrilled by the treatment room— _wasn't that a euphemism for the ages_?—and her enthusiasm for pushing boundaries coupled with her willingness to dismiss any opinion that conflicted with her all-too-eager devotion to authority. _Chamber of horrors, indeed._ In retrospect, the red flags were waving furiously, right in front of him.

Then came the days and weeks afterward: Noel's expedited transfer request; the tossing and turning at night; the endless brooding over his memories, trying to sort out reality from implanted fantasy; the intrusive thoughts; and finally, after an embarrassingly public and unwarranted explosion of temper directed at his hapless yeoman, McCoy's suggestion—at first circumspect, then more forceful—that he spend some time in the doctor's office in what were euphemistically titled "executive debriefings" on McCoy's public calendar.

But his memory of his time in that room and the surrounding emotions remained locked up tight, or so he was determined to convince himself, and the doctor's most skilled probing yielded only frustration and exasperation on both their parts. Even Spock's last-ditch attempt at a mind meld, intended to "elicit an acceptable degree of closure" had been aborted in the face of what the Vulcan dryly described as _an extraordinary degree of resistance_. McCoy had rolled his eyes at that pronouncement and deleted all but the bare minimum of the entire mess from his medical log, then swapped out a regular nightcap with the captain in lieu of a course of forty-five-minute battles of wits.

Kirk realized he was grimacing and McCoy was studying him with a concerned look. "Regardless of what's going on now, she did help save your life in the end, Jim," he said gently, and—not for the first time—Kirk wondered if his CMO had been taking mind-reading classes from his first officer.

He unclenched his hands and forced a smile, then discreetly wiped his now-sweaty palms on his trousers as he sat.

"She's hardly rogue, Bones. The phrases she used, _quasi-security_ and _civilian prisoner risk analysis,_ are what alerted me. I've seen those terms come across in my classified briefings lately more times than I can count, and it's always in reference to someone who the security side of Fleet has determined represents a threat on behalf of the Klingons or the Romulans, or some as-yet unidentified enemy actor. A new group within Intelligence has emerged lately, something of a shadow group, that is tasked with monitoring those threats."

McCoy snorted. "Solorio is just about the last person I would expect to be an undercover radicalized agent, if that's what you're insinuating." He paused, as if unsure what personality traits he could offer up as evidence, but Spock filled that absence with ease.

"Doctor, in light of a recent five percent uptick in unauthorized service personnel disappearances and an accompanying smaller but noticeable increase in thwarted small-scale terroristic plans, Starfleet Intelligence has begun recruiting a number of behavioral specialists to study aberrance around abandonment of service or military commitments. The current theory is that radicalized individuals may conceal their true selves to an expert level, joining the service just long enough to learn its weaknesses around their specialization, then abandoning their commitment, joining an established enemy group and using their knowledge to incite terror or disruption on behalf of said enemies."

"Yes, I've heard talk about that, but, well, it's just absurd. At least," the doctor amended, "if we're talking about Solorio. Dollars to doughnuts—" at this, Spock and Kirk exchanged mystified glances, and Kirk shrugged "—she believes there's a good reason for what she's done, and she'll have to explain herself and likely face a court martial when she's found, but you cannot convince me that there is a nefarious bone in her body."

"Perhaps," Spock suggested with an unusual degree of gentleness, "your perspective is not entirely objective in this case."

McCoy clenched the edges of the briefing room table and he gave the Vulcan a vexed and impatient expression as he leaned forward to respond. "My _perspective_ ," he growled, "is entirely one of a supervising officer who makes a point of getting to know his fellow crewmates and subordinates, and as a physician with deep and extensive experience in human as well as xenopsychology."

"Ah," Spock replied, "we have come to the core issue at hand. Lieutenant Solorio is not, in fact, entirely human, is she?"

McCoy narrowed his eyes and glanced between the captain and first officer. "No, she is not," he conceded warily. "Her genetic makeup is approximately fifty percent human, fifty percent as-yet classified. Hardly out of the ordinary these days."

"As-yet classified?" Kirk asked.

McCoy shifted in his chair, then slowly swiveled to and fro, his expression taking on a thoughtful cast. "Jim, you know there are countless humanoid species out there, many of whom are not in the Federation and have not yet been extensively studied, their genetic makeup still unmapped and unrecorded. It's not unusual to come across someone of mixed heritage whose DNA simply cannot yet be untangled to the point that we can say that _yes_ , he/she/it/they—or any variation of pronoun thereof—is or are definitively of this or that species in specific percentages. Such is the case with Lieutenant Solorio."

"She doesn't know either?" Kirk sounded somewhat surprised.

"Believe me, it's not something you want to grill her on," Bones said ruefully. "I do know she spent some time in a children's home and then was in a foster placement in disputed territory-a plant called Novlia-before being adopted by a human on a border planet and then moving to Earth to attend the Academy. From what I gathered in the one time we spoke of it, she has few memories prior to her intake at a hospital on Novlia at the equivalent of approximately five human years of age."

"I see." Kirk tapped his stylus against the palm of his hand. "So she doesn't match anything in our databases. And she's a biochemical specialist in cytotoxicology. And she's disappeared on an unapproved absence."

McCoy's jaw clenched, but he bit back a retort at the kindness in Kirk's eyes.

"I know you'll protect her like a mama bear, Bones, because she's not just your subordinate but your patient as well. But I'm just asking the things Intelligence will ask if we can't nip this in the bud. Better to think this through now than in the heat of the moment in a deposition."

The doctor slumped a little, feeling deflated, and gave Kirk a contrite if reluctant smile. "You're right, Jim." He sighed. "In layperson's terms, there are parts of her DNA that simply cannot be mapped and classified. And yes, she's also a gifted biochemist."

"And that," Spock said slowly, "is surely disturbing to some within Starfleet Command. The unknown has always been a source of fear in uncertain times."

"You mean in _paranoid_ times," McCoy snapped, "such as we apparently find ourselves lately. Beings of unknown, mixed heritage are inherently dangerous now."

"As a being of mixed heritage," and at this he gave McCoy a forgiving look, "I simply point out that the Federation is a much more cautious and suspicious entity than it was a mere decade ago, and that the goal of Intelligence is always to detect and root out that which is insidious yet appears innocuous. Persons fitting a particular profile—undocumented loyalties, Academy graduate, science specialty pertinent to potential weaponry, sudden disappearance—will likely provoke an intense interest from Intelligence."

McCoy took that in, tried to reconcile it with what he had gleaned of Solorio's background and personality while staring at the table in silence, holding still in his body and soul for a rare moment. He then shook his head decisively. "No. I won't accept that she could be a danger to anyone. We have to find her before they do, Jim." His tone took on a new urgency.

"I'm afraid it looks like we've been tossed off the case, Bones. Unless you have any idea where she may be?"

He clenched his hands in frustration. "No. But we have to try. It's the right thing to do."

Kirk considered for a moment, weighing McCoy's conviction against his orders, then nodded decisively. "All right. We'll compromise. We'll proceed to Iliria as ordered—Spock, go ahead and advise Komack we'll be under way shortly—but Bones, you have latitude to investigate in the meantime, to piece together whatever you can find that could lead us to her in a timely manner. After we've wrapped up at Iliria, we'll take action on anything you've learned. Chekov can assist as he is able. This seems like something he would take an interest in."

McCoy breathed out in relief. "Yes, sir. Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

The first clue came that very same day, and he didn't even have to work for it.

"Doctor."

There was no response from him, no indication that he was aware of her presence. The nurse stood in his doorway for a moment, then stepped in and planted herself in front of his desk. She rapped her fingernails against the surface.

" _Doctor McCoy."_

"Mmph?" His head jerked up from the report he was studying, and he rubbed his eyes.

"Yes, what is it, Chris?"

She reached out, palm closed, and he half-rose to take the data chip she deposited in his hand.

"Weekly pharmaceutical reconciliation."

"Thanks," he responded absently, and turned his attention back to the report. After a moment, he realized his head nurse was still standing in front of him expectantly, arms crossed. He sighed inwardly and gave her his full attention.

"Something I should be aware of, Ms. Chapel?"

She smiled grimly, and he felt his stomach drop. Chapel could be imperious at times with her patients, when they dared to disobey her instructions; and she enjoyed latitude to challenge McCoy on a diagnosis or treatment plan with which she disagreed (and while he would glare and snap at her on those occasions, he was secretly grateful); but her nature was by default compassionate yet poised. A grim smile from Christine Chapel was a harbinger of trouble indeed.

"As a matter of fact, I recommend you review the data sooner rather than later. There are five units of antracil missing from the pharmaceutical inventories."

He stood, chair scratching against the deck and stylus clattering down unnoticed.

"That's impossible."

"I've triple-checked, Doctor. It cannot be accounted for," she responded, unperturbed.

"The stores have redundant biometric authentication access. How the hell can it just disappear?" he demanded.

As was typical in their relationship, McCoy's agitation was inverse to Chapel's composure. She clasped her hands behind her back and followed his pacing back and forth with a tolerant eye.

"I'm sure further investigation will turn up a rational explanation. I'll perform a thorough review of the dispensary access logs myself. In the meantime, I recommend that you personally approve and oversee the dispensing of all Class One medications."

He grimaced but nodded. "I don't like putting everyone under a microscope, but that seems like a reasonable precaution for now. Oh, and—" he said, as Chris turned toward the doorway, "get me an updated list of everyone who has access to the dispensary."

She smiled again, but this one was fond. "Already on the data chip, Doctor," she replied.

He had a sudden foreboding of a disquieting sort of synchronicity, a lack of mere coincidence. "I, uh, don't suppose Lieutenant Solorio is on that list?"

Chapel gave him a shrewd look, then nodded. "Yes, Doctor, she is. I wondered about that, given that she wouldn't ordinarily have access to prescribed or restricted substances, but I thought you had made an exception. For research purposes, perhaps." Her expression was watchful and expectant.

 _The hell I did._ He smiled at her. "Thank you, Nurse. I'll take it from here."

She made no move to leave. "How is she doing?"

He blinked. "Solorio? Uh, Doctor Macy assures me that she'll make a full recovery."

Chapel nodded, not taking her eyes from him. "Chekov was in her quarters earlier."

He had long suspected that Chapel had spies all over the ship, tasked with alerting her to anything out of the ordinary that may merit medical monitoring or intervention, a system whose efficacy he grudgingly conceded; but this bit of intel, and the speed with which he knew it would spread through the crew, alarmed him.

"Drop it, Chris," he said curtly.

Her expression didn't change, but he knew her well enough to interpret the tightening of her shoulders and the new formality in her tone.

"Doctor, I-"

"Is this going to be a problem, Lieutenant?"

She blinked twice, opened her mouth to protest, then thought the better of it. "No sir, no problem."

"Good. For the record, and in case anyone asks, I had Security send him in to retrieve some lab notes she said would be helpful," he added, trying to keep his tone neutral. "Do we need to reassign any of her duties?"

"No, I think Sanchez and Tirloni can handle it between the two of them, at least short-term. She had an experiment going in there-" she gestured with her thumb toward the biochem lab, "that I can't quite figure out, so I would appreciate a look at those notes." She tilted her head at him, her pique not yet faded. He locked eyes with her, willing her to walk away without further meddling, but as usual she read him like a book.

"You're a terrible liar, Doctor," she said, and gave him a pitying smile before turning toward the door.

* * *

Rec Room

Stardate 5960

2200 hours

"What do you have for me, Chekov?" McCoy murmured as he slid onto a low-slung chair opposite the small sofa on which the ensign was perched. The Rec Room was hopping tonight, as they used to say, a lighthearted and animated vibe as shore leave experiences were shared, dissected, and processed. In the background someone—it sounded like Uhura—was running through a chord progression on some sort of stringed instrument, while the deep bass rumble of a hologame was undercut by groans and cheers from the players. That shared excitement would ordinarily make McCoy ridiculously pleased with the crew's disposition, but tonight the noise and energy were already grating on his nerves. To top it all off, his acutely sensitive nose clued him in to the wafting scent of a borderline illicit substance coming from somewhere in his near vicinity. He craned his head around and gave a broad-range scowl, zeroing in on the most likely suspect, a brash young newly-assigned engineering maintenance tech two tables away who met his stare, wide-eyed, then blushed and slipped something into his pocket. _Kids these days._ He squinted at the crewman. _I'll catch you at your check-up, Sanders._

Across from him, Chekov cleared his throat politely, both apprehensive and pleased about this semi-covert rendezvous with the doctor, and placed a colorfully-wrapped package on the table between them. McCoy turned his attention back to his companion and eyed the item with interest.

"Christmas paper, Chekov?"

The ensign blushed. "It was all I could find, Doctor. I did not want to be seen walking around with these things, you know."

The doctor made a non-committal sound. "Fair enough."

"The crew. They still do not know she has disappeared?" Chekov had been sworn to secrecy when informed of Solorio's absence this morning. The official word was that she had picked up a minor but virulently-infectious strain of Argelian ocular parasites, and was left behind, under quarantine on the base, her condition requiring more prolonged and specialized treatment than the _Enterprise_ was equipped to provide. The truth was known only by Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and now, Chekov. The doctor had no qualms about including the ensign in this inner circle. _Doctor, state secrets were invented in Russia_ , the kid had intoned in all seriousness.

McCoy stoically tamped down a twinge of regret. "Starfleet Intelligence ordered us to keep this under wraps. If people have questions, they should come to me." _And I will tell them absolutely nothing, because those are my orders, and sometimes the needs of the one_ do _outweigh the needs of the many, damnit._

Chekov gave him a long, measured stare that told the doctor the younger man knew exactly what was going on. McCoy fought the urge to fidget, and instead leaned forward and glowered at the young Russian. "Out with it, Pavel," he rasped.

Chekov lurched back, eyes widened slightly, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I was able to gain remote access to her accounts—don't ask me how, sir, please—and reviewed all transactions within the last twelve months. I've also reviewed her computer activity and searched through her quarters, but I think someone saw me go in, so…" McCoy nodded wearily and gestured at him to continue. "Four things I have discovered, Doctor. The first is intangible." He paused.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, Pavel," the doctor drawled, the ensign dipped his head in apology.

"Yes, sir. There have been no unexpected or suspicious deposits into any of her accounts. But shortly before she beamed down to Deep Space Three, the lieutenant converted almost all of her credits to darknet currency."

McCoy attempted to cover his confusion with a frown. "I've heard about this, but explain the ramifications, please."

Chekov nodded eagerly. "Sir, it's a completely virtual currency that cannot be traced from origin or destination. It is used primarily for illicit or illegal transactions across and beyond the Federation, with tens of thousands of transaction points and conversion values that shift around every microsecond or so."

McCoy thought back to his days as a young boy visiting his grandmother in the still-rural parts of Georgia, and how she would give him pieces of paper with numbers and pictures of quaintly-dressed people, worn to silky-softness from decades of use, and send him down to the corner store to trade them in for an ice cream cone or bait for the local fishing hole, or a cool drink. _Soda_ , he recalled. He was forbidden from trading it for the latest game vid, though, at risk of incurring the fearsome wrath of that Southern matriarch.

Currency, he decided, had come a long way. He rubbed his temples and wished he had brought along that new bottle of bourbon sitting in his quarters.

" _Almost_ all of her credits?"

"Yes, sir. According to base records, she spent the remainder of her funds on clothing and supplies."

That kindled his curiosity. "What, exactly?"

Chekov bent his head, consulting his tablet. "It appears to have been the sort of clothing one would need for a wilderness expedition or survival training, sir. Long trousers, long-sleeved blouses, field jacket, synthetic wool socks, all made of the latest nano tech. A knapsack. Also, a knife, a solar lantern, a personal water filtration unit, first aid supplies, and a case of emergency rations."

At that, he was stumped. _Are you on safari, Solorio?_ he thought at her.

"Next?" he prompted.

The ensign drew a deep breath. "The lieutenant was spending a great deal of her free time in stellar cartography."

"Doing what?" he asked, perplexed. As far as he was aware, she had never mentioned or indicated a special interest in that field.

Chekov shrugged. "Seemingly random searches, sir. No patterns that I could detect."

"Hmm. Okay. Nothing missing from the armory? I assume we would have heard about that by now."

"No, sir. Probably a good thing," Chekov added. "Her marksmanship skills were apparently not, um, as they would say, _optimal_."

"Well, that's not generally a skill I recruit for in my labs. What else do you have?" he asked, indicating the package on the table. Chekov looked at it as well and chewed at his lip for a moment before picking it up gingerly and sliding the wrapping off of it. It was a small stack of canvases and transparent paintings, half a dozen of various shapes and sizes, the smallest no larger than his hand, the largest an oblong shape of nearly half a meter on one side. Chekov carefully slid them from his forearm onto the table.

McCoy stared at the top one for a moment, then picked it up and leaned over to hold it up to the closest light, a dim lamp built into a side table next to the chair he was sitting on. The painting was on a wedge of what he took to be transparent aluminum, rigid and no more than a millimeter thick. The lamplight shone through in places where thick layers of dark pigment did not obscure it. The subject of the painting was a stylized representation of something ill-defined, appearing organic, animalistic, threatening. _Acrylics_ , he mused as he ran his fingers over the texture of the paint. Versatile, but, according to his daughter, challenging for the contemplative artist who liked to linger over brushstrokes. Joanna had gone through an angsty artistic phase, and he'd indulged her hobby from afar, acquiring and shipping back all manner of art supplies from around the galaxy, and in return, earning a treasure trove of critiques and occasional approval from his brutally honest daughter. _No more of those iridescent chalk pens from Centauri, Dad. They're just impossible._ His eyes crinkled at the memory, then he tilted the pane of aluminum at an angle and frowned.

"My god, what is that?" he breathed as new shapes, previously invisible, appeared around the edges. _Some kind of reflective medium? Light sensitive or gyroscopic paint?_ It could make for interesting creations, he thought, for the artist who wanted control over the viewer's experience. But this did not feel like a deliberate artistic decision; something about the hidden symbols felt unconscious and urgent, evoking an anxiety exponential to that expressed in the primary painting.

"Looks like some kind of…hieroglyph?" Chekov suggested as he peered through the piece from the other side.

McCoy shook his head slowly. "No, that's not the word. They're more like…" he searched his memory for the term, one he'd heard long ago at a xenomedicine conference…the one where the anthropologist had lectured about native medicine on some obscure planet, the one where the practitioners used symbols to…

"Sigils," he said suddenly. "They look like sigils."

Chekov's forehead crinkled as he continued to study the symbols. "There's a pattern," he said.

"Yes, you're right." McCoy noted the recurrence of the sequence and filed it away for his subconscious to mull over in the background. He placed the painting atop the others and sat back.

"What do you think?" Chekov ventured.

"I'm a doctor, not an art critic," he replied testily. "I'll look at the rest later. But you said four things. Are you saving the best for last, son?"

The ensign gave a small nod and drew from the corner of his sofa an object that resembled some of the books that occupied a prominent space along a shelf in McCoy's quarters, collected from worlds near and far; printing and bookbinding had turned out to be a relatively common invention among humanoid species.

He placed it almost reverently on the table and gave the doctor a satisfied smile. "It appears to be her journal, sir. I did not read it," he hastened to add. "The very first page told me what it was, and I closed it."

McCoy picked it up and weighed it in his hands. It had heft, bound with precise stitching and covered in a synthetic but very convincing leather in a shade that evoked the cattle ranges of West Texas. He flipped the pages, then ran his hand over one at random, impressed that it was real paper, not the composited-from-everything-that-goes-into-the-recycler crap that filled most printed books these days. Occasional smudges in the writing indicated real ink. Expensive private indulgences on a lieutenant's wages, that told him she was an admirer of things both traditional and elegant, but who did not wish to be seen as so. _Maybe an artifact of her meager upbringing?_ he mused. A scent wafted up from the rifled pages, an echo of something vaguely botanical he had on occasion noted on passing Solorio in the lab or corridor. He placed it on top of the stack of paintings and rested his hands on it in a protective manner.

"Thank you, Ensign. Some nice investigative work there."

Chekov sat up straighter and nodded once, briskly. "Thank you, sir. It's nice to work on something a little different sometimes."

McCoy leaned back and stretched out his legs, then laced his hands together over his stomach.

"You two were friends, weren't you?" he asked as he scanned the room again, noting the uptick in noise and the crowding around Uhura, then brought his gaze back to the young man.

He flushed and nodded, and McCoy wondered if the ensign had hoped for something more than the occasional shared meal or stroll around the ship's gardens that he had observed between the two of them.

"Notice anything different about her lately?

Chekov considered for a moment then leaned forward and let his arms dangle between his knees, all awkward angles, and reached up to brush his mop of hair out of his face. McCoy was reminded not for the first time of a puppy that had not yet grown into itself. He thought he heard the faintest of sighs escape the ensign.

"What is it, son? You can tell me," he said gently.

"It's probably nothing, sir. It's just that, well, she asked me a few weeks ago if I would...if I would take care of her plants." He shrugged at the puzzled look McCoy gave him. "You know, if something happened to her."

The doctor felt a sinking in his chest but dredged up a half-smile for the ensign. "Well, I hope you have a green thumb, Chekov."

Chekov snorted. "I'll consult with Sulu, sir." He paused, and a note of worry tinged his voice. "I hope you can figure out what happened and find her, sir."

McCoy nodded distractedly, thoughts already racing down half a dozen pathways. He rose and bent to gather all of the items Chekov had entrusted to him. "Me too, Pavel. I'll let you know if there's anything else you can help with."

"Yes, sir. Have a—" Chekov broke off, his words lingering in the air between him and McCoy's already-retreating figure. "Good evening," he finished to himself.


	7. Chapter 7

He deposited the items on his desk and surveyed them, hands on hips, before lowering himself to the edge of his bunk and working his boots off with a grunt. He pulled his blue tunic off and tossed it in the general direction of the recycler and sighed as he tugged his black undershirt into place, then settled at his desk and reached for a bottle and tumbler from the shelf behind him.

 _Where to start?_ he wondered as he twisted the lid from the bottle, a stout polycarbonate flask with elaborate and alien script across the label. The disturbing ferocity and intensity of Solorio's paintings notwithstanding, he decided that they were not likely to reveal substantive information about her motive or intent. He tilted the bottle toward the tumbler and blinked as the rush of exotic, earthy fumes from the stream of greenish fluid hit his sinuses, filled the glass halfway, considered, then topped it off. He picked up the journal and opened it to the first page, tamping down guilt over the necessary invasion of her privacy. _She would have a conniption if she knew_ , he thought wryly.

 _Stardate 5890_

 _1900 hours_

 _Well, here I am—transferred in this morning. It's a beautiful ship, huge compared to the training ship we used at the Academy. The first officer was in the transporter room when I beamed over. That one is intimidating. I've only met a few Vulcans before, in grad school, and even though the rumors are that he's half human, you wouldn't know it from the way he speaks and behaves. He looked at me and I felt like a specimen in a Petri dish. He was polite enough, showed me to my quarters, but definitely don't want to get on his bad side. Do Vulcans have a bad side, though? Seems like that would be illogical._

 _Haven't met the captain yet, but that's not a surprise. He doesn't have time to shake the hand of every new low-level crewmember. I'm sure I'll run into him sooner or later; even with four hundred and thirty crew it's inevitable. I've heard stories about him, but who knows? I won't have much to do with him, I guess, it's not likely they'd let me near a bridge station with my operations record, and I don't expect I would be in demand for away teams. Not sure I'll get to see much, stuck in a lab in the back corner of Sickbay, but it's good to be out here, anyway._

McCoy paused there. He considered not for the first time the irony of it—how people signed up, spent years at the Academy, then competed for a coveted spot on the flagship of the fleet, sent out to explore new worlds and all that jazz, but then might end up never seeing or experiencing much outside of their day-to-day duties, other than the occasional shore leave. It was different on smaller ships, he knew from experience, where everyone pitched in and it didn't take long to end up back at the top of the duty roster. And then, of course, there were people who joined up just to get away to anywhere but their old lives and ended up biting off more than they expected. Not that he would know anything about that, of course. He moved on to the next journal entry.

 _So it looks like I'll at least get to work pretty independently. There will be routine things that need to be done every day but also special projects, and I get the impression my predecessor was none too conscientious about keeping on top of those things, but the head nurse says I'll have latitude to work on research projects of my own. So maybe I'll finally get to tackle that Leutscher virus mapping project. She—Lieutenant Chapel—seems nice enough, but a little standoffish. I'll just wait and see with her._

 _The CMO though, he's…well, hmm. I asked around about him after I found out about my transfer here. Lissa said she knows him from a journal peer review and apparently he's some sort of_ wunderkind _—_ here McCoy snorted and looked away for a moment, squinting as he tried to recall who she was referring to and landing on a vague memory of a neurosurgeon from Centauri VII with long legs and a short temper, marveling at what a small universe this was sometimes— _and that he can be "grumpy but don't take it personally."_

Well, that was fair, he conceded. He flipped to the next page.

 _When Chapel took me to his office to introduce me, he was in the middle of re-assembling something, some kind of scanner device. It was scattered in a dozen pieces across his desk, and he had the most ferocious frown when he looked up, I had to stop myself from turning right around and walking out and right back down to the transporter room. Then Chapel laughed a little and said, "Have you lost the specs for it again?" and he laughed, too, and I could tell from the way she looked at him that this was to be expected with him. All bark and no bite, as Emmalin used to say. He invited me to dinner with him, Chapel, and the captain tomorrow. I couldn't really say no, so there's that to look forward to/dread. I'm sure I'll either say something inappropriate, or I'll freeze and sit there silently the whole time. Who knows, maybe I can work in_ both _of those faux pas._

That was the end of the first two entries, and he had two thoughts: One, that his impression that the lieutenant was unusually perceptive was correct; and two, how different was his recollection of that initial meeting and the dinner the following day. She had presented herself with composure and confidence, none of the insecurity and self-deprecation from her entry seeping through, and he certainly didn't recall her saying anything out of place, though she was the quietest one at the table.

One thing stood out in his memory, though: whenever she was asked a question of a personal nature—where she grew up, did she have any siblings—she was exceptionally skilled at deflecting those inquiries. He had not let on that he knew the answers to those questions and more, having read through her high-level service records before even recommending her transfer to the _Enterprise._ She had proved to be a master at projecting a persona of her choosing.

He picked up his drink and downed a gulp of it, wincing as the smokiness burned its way down his throat and up his nose, and skipped ahead a few pages. This was a shorter entry, as were the next few, now spaced several days apart and revolving around her new acquaintances onboard, notes on inventory to order, complaints about the food replicators, her exasperation with trying to learn the layout of the ship ( _all of the corridors look alike. Why don't they have more signage, or an interface with the ship's computer? Maybe a directory in the lifts?_ )—that was a good idea, and he wondered if the human factors engineers would ever do something so practical; but there was nothing that would indicate she was planning anything covert and malicious or considering abandoning her duties. Then he reached an entry from about a month ago, and the shift in her handwriting caught his eye. Smooth and even printing was replaced with a hastily scrawled script, barely legible in places, her writing indenting the page.

 _Stardate 5928_

 _I don't know what just happened._

 _I fell asleep, and then I woke up again, or at least I think I did. But my cabin was darker than it should have been. And I felt something there, a presence, something enormous and full of rage and pain. I couldn't move, I could barely breathe, I was_

 _No, it wasn't real. It can't be real. My gods it cant be real. I fell asleep again but was I really awake? And then when I opened my eyes it was gone and the light was normal again and I could breathe my gods what was that I thought I was having a heart attack_

 _I can't go back to sleep now I can't sleep again_

 _No no no no go away please go away_

He took another drink and felt a heaviness form in the pit of his stomach as he read and then re-read the entry, her dread and panic seeming to ooze from the page. He shook himself. _Don't be silly,_ he chided. He suspected it was just hypnogogic sleep paralysis that she had logged in her journal. Her description was classic: perception of a malevolent presence, shortness of breath, a sense of dread, increased heart rate. It wasn't dangerous, and happened more often than people realized, but McCoy knew first-hand the almost indescribable terror and panic that accompanied the phenomenon. It was the inspiration for some horrifying pieces of human creativity—a snippet from _Moby Dick,_ and thenFuseli's _The Nightmare_ came to mind, perhaps the artist's efforts to exorcise his own nocturnal demons…

Suddenly the connection snapped into place, punching through the pleasant alcoholic buzz that had taken up residence in his head. He set the glass down with a _thunk_ and reached across his desk to pick up the painting he'd examined earlier in the rec room. The dark looming figure took on new meaning in the context of a sleep hallucination, its looming malevolence resonating with his own recalled experiences.

 _So she paints what she sees in her dream, hoping to make it more tangible, maybe? Reduce it to a harmless layer of acrylic on a piece of aluminum?_ He sorted through the remaining paintings, finding variations on a theme, the same figure depicted in different media and on an assortment of materials, some with the symbols he had seen on the first, some with what looked like a star pattern or constellation that he did not recognize. He felt a twinge of empathy at her compulsion to define and control the dark entity that apparently haunted her dream. _No, not_ dream _, singular. More than once. Just one occurrence wouldn't drive her to these endless repetitions._

Skimming through the next few pages of her journal confirmed his suspicion—the dark figure had visited her consistently since that night a month ago, according to the stardates she recorded. Her handwriting became increasingly erratic, her entries both more sporadic and desperate, until they abruptly ended a week ago. He read the final entry, matched it up with a memory of his own, and slumped back in his chair, wincing with regret. Running his fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes and excoriated himself. _Why didn't she ask for help? She was two doors down from me. No,_ he reminded himself, _some of that's on you, McCoy._

* * *

 _Heart's Desire_

Stardate 5962

"You sure about this, Tara?"

I sensed that Brodie had initially been determined to view me as mere cargo, like everything else legal and otherwise he ferried between planet and port, but that an uneasiness with the ethics of his decision had come to settle over him through the short voyage to the coordinates I'd specified. I thought he might even had come to enjoy my company over the last two days, as I had his.

"I've spent enough time navigating around the backwaters of this quadrant to know your destination is uninhabited, barren, and nowhere near the regular flight path of any ship, Federation or not," he continued, his voice taking on an urgent note.

"Yes," I replied without hesitation. "I am sure."

He shook his head and grunted, then let the silence settle for a moment, checking fuel levels and angle of approach as we neared the planet.

"Thirty thousand kilometers out," he said, keeping his eyes on the viewscreen. "You have enough supplies?"

"Yes," I said, a tinge of exasperation entering my tone. "I have supplies, I have the best survival training in the Federation, and I have common sense."

"But you don't have any sort of communication device," he countered, and risked a glance at me.

My jaw was set in a stubborn line that surely he had come to recognize in even the short time we had spent together, and he sighed, apparently resigning himself to my course of action.

"All right. Any idea where you want to set down?"

Well, that was the question that had been burrowing through my head with increasing urgency throughout our little journey. I had halfway expected that I would receive some sort of indication, a sign, a psychic _pulling-toward_ as we neared, but I'd felt nothing yet.

"Let's take a look at the possibilities when we reach orbit," I said with as much confidence as I could muster.

He sighed again, more quietly this time. "Yes, ma'am. Your nickel, as they say."

The little planet was suddenly there, growing larger on the viewscreen more quickly than I'd expected, but then, it wasn't like I had a plethora of experience in planetary approach outside of a simulator. I leaned back in the co-pilot chair and tried to arrange my features into a reasonably calm expression.

Brodie settled the shuttle into orbit and we surveyed the surface below in silence as we passed over once, then twice. It was shrouded in a dense cloud cover, with glimpses of scattered barren landmasses and vast bodies of pewter-colored water. He shot the occasional glance at me, first inquisitive, then troubled. Finally, he spoke up as we crossed the terminus for the third time, gliding in between the planet and its solitary, tidally-locked moon.

"I don't have the fancy instruments you have on a starship, lassie. I can't tell you much more than you can see with your own two eyes."

"What _can_ you tell me, Mister Brodie?" I demanded, and I knew my anxiety was making me pricklier than usual, but I could not contain it. "This may not be a starship, but it's hardly a rusted-out bucket of bolts from the backside of the Martian dry dock, either. Now, I paid you, fair and square. Are you an honorable pirate or not?"

He scowled at me then thrummed his twelve fingers on the instrument panel, glancing between the planet and the starfield, then sighed and flicked his hand across a display.

"No signs of civilization—no transmissions, no power grids, no atmospheric emissions. Old radiation, mostly toward the northern part of that continent," he gestured at the largest one, stretched along the equator. "I would stay away from there if I were you. Looks like," he squinted at a topographic scanner, "several abandoned cities, with smaller settlements clustered mostly around the urban areas. Temperatures vary from minus six degrees to twenty degrees Celsius, and the atmosphere will do ye no harm. And I will have ye know," he added, hurt infusing his glower, "I am no pirate, lassie. A smuggler at best."

I snorted and closed my eyes and listened, waited for the _knowing_ to settle into me, to guide me to it as it had done so far. I ignored Brodie's uneasy stare drilling holes into me and took a deep breath, then gasped as it hit me in my gut, knocking my breath away.

" _There_." I wheezed and sat forward, the chair squeaking in protest, and pointed at one of the smaller northern land masses peeking out through the cloud cover, trying to control the trembling in my hand. "There's a city, toward the center. Take me there."


	8. Chapter 8

_U.S.S. Enterprise_

Stardate 5961

1900 hours

It wasn't that McCoy _disliked_ bowling. He could appreciate, as an observer, the friendly rivalry and camaraderie that bubbled up individual and team competitions; silly shirts and uncomfortable shoes notwithstanding, he approved of an activity that fostered crew interaction, while leaving the main responsibilities of morale and recreation planning to the experts onboard.

But he was baffled by the allure of a game that consisted of rolling a ball towards a set of objects to be knocked over. And the slipperiness of the lanes, for those players who ventured past the foul line, made him nervous. Everyone was just one careless step away from a bone fracture, a bruised coccyx, or worse; not to mention the (admittedly unlikely) possibility of a player losing control of the ball mid-swing: he could envision it sliding out of grip, sailing backwards, smashing into something _or someone_ unsuspecting, and the bloody, painful mess that would ensue. It was enough to make him wish he'd poured that shot of whisky Scott had offered him with dinner, after all.

If he had been pressed on his aversion, he might also have admitted to a personal high score in the mid-fifties, and to the humiliation of losing _twice_ to his ex-wife's bratty nine-year-old nephew at the final family reunion he'd been invited to prior to what he privately referred to as The Great McCoy Schism of 2253.

He also reminded himself that gross motor skills, while useful for things like bowling or curling or hopscotch, would be of little significance in repairing a ruptured brain aneurysm. It was some consolation.

And so it was with no small amount of reluctance and trepidation that he squared his shoulders and stepped into the _Enterprise's_ bowling alley. He blinked when the doors slid open, expecting typical evening light levels, his eyes momentarily confused by glowing neon lights that dazzled against the darkness. Music, something with a heavy bass, maybe Centauri punk fusion, thumped from farther into the space, and he heard someone over the audio system-Riley, if he had to guess-handling DJ duties. When his eyes adjusted, he took a few tentative steps in and surveyed his surroundings.

"Doctor McCoy!"

He jumped and barely contained a yelp; the voice, coming from someone he could not initially see, seemed to be practically _in_ his left ear.

"Sorry!" A figure lit up next to him, dressed in black but draped in glowing loops of dancing light: pink, green, and yellow lit up the face of Ensign Lacy Em, one of Scotty's protégés. "Didn't meant to scare you, sir. It's retro tournament night. Want to join a team?"

He thought that she could put out quite an impressive volume, considering her petite frame. He tugged at his tunic and straightened, trying to gather up his dignity, but it felt like chasing after a dandelion in the wind.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Ensign," he replied, trying to pitch his voice just under the rumbling music, but at that moment Riley cut to classic Earth rock, and he had to repeat himself, competing against the _a cappella_ intro to a song he recognized from the Earth Late Classical music history class he'd taken after his junior year at Ole Miss, a summer school course he'd picked up last-minute solely because he had overheard Susan Anderton mention that she was going to take it. Susan, of the long, shiny red hair, slightly crooked nose, and perfectly proportioned-

Em cleared her throat, just as the song transitioned into bass and piano, and he pushed Susan away for now. Em was looking up at him, chewing her lip, an uncertain expression on her face, so he gave her a reassuring smile.

"Really, you're better off without me, dear. Have you seen Nurse Chapel?" He knew she would be here, not in the middle of the action, but on the periphery, and that's why he had ventured down here despite his better judgment. _And despite the menu for tonight, which includes a large helping of crow for you, McCoy,_ he reminded himself grimly.

Em returned his smile and her shoulders relaxed. "Sure," she said. She pointed to a table in a far corner. "Right over there."

"Thanks," he said, but she had already turned away and was making her way to the bar. He sighed and willed his feet to make their way in the direction she had pointed.

" _Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters,"_ the singer crooned, and he snorted at the unfair synchronicity the universe sometimes threw at him.

The table emerged from the shadows as he approached, and she did not see him at first. She was watching the tournament with a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes. The sounds of cheering intermingled with a roar of disapproval and helped to mask the fall of his boots on the deck until he reached her, and then she must have seen him from the corner of her eye. She pushed away from the table and the smile slipped away, replaced with the guarded, neutral expression with which he was more familiar. The ballad ended, and launched into an epic guitar solo that dredged up a memory saturated with the old, bleached out softness of conflicting but pleasurable emotions.

"Queen," he said suddenly, the name of the band coming back to him in a flash.

"I beg your pardon?" she replied, drawing back, her eyebrows going up in surprise.

"Never mind." He shook his head. "It's about to get a lot weirder, anyway. Look, we need to talk, Chris." He sat without invitation. The tabletop was sticky and he drew his arms back, crossed them over his stomach.

She didn't object, but her eyes narrowed at his use of her nickname. "All right." She picked up a glass of something pink and bubbly and sipped. She had taken her hair down and discarded her duty tunic in favor of a modest wrap-around garment that he couldn't quite comprehend: it had folds and tucks that seemed to defy gravity as he understood it, but it was a flattering shade of deep green, and he liked the way the lights shimmered and reflected against it. He looked away, toward the alley, and tensed as he watched Chekov approach a lane, ball in hand, gesticulating wildly with it as he spoke to a teammate; then sighed in relief as the ensign turned and released the ball- _straight down the middle, knocked eight of them down without even trying, how does he_ do _that?_ -and walked casually back to his team's table. He cleared his throat and she looked at him expectantly.

"I've been thinking. About Solorio."

"Mmm hmm." She waited, and he tried out different words in different combinations, before finally settling on something he felt preserved a modicum of his dignity.

"I wasn't quite forthcoming with you."

"I know."

"And I should have trusted you."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

 _Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?_

She didn't respond, and he wondered not for the first time what kind of hurt must have taught her that granting forgiveness was either a dangerous concession, or a gift to be withheld. The silence between them grew uncomfortable against the rising cacophony of the tournament. Finally he sighed.

"I need your help with this."

She gestured with an open palm towards him. "Then let me help. Tell me what's going on."

He filled her in on the events of the last few days, described Solorio's journals and the odd situation with Noel.

"So why are you telling me this now?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "After talking with Chekov, I realized I needed to get the big picture, and you probably spent more time with her during work hours than anyone else."

"Yes, I did." She paused and tilted her head at him. "And she did take the drugs, by the way. She did an impressive job of splicing together some security footage, but it was definitely her."

"Shit." He rubbed his hands over his face, wishing Riley would turn the sound down, but in all the years he had know him, that kid had never shown much appreciation for the musical arts. "So tell me, did you notice anything unusual lately? Anything at all that can help us figure this out?"

She tapped her fingernails against her glass and studied him for a moment before replying. "Leo."

She sometimes called him this, and he didn't understand why, because no one else did; but then, no one else called her Chris, so he supposed it was fair.

"Leo," she repeated, and he met her eyes this time, "No, I didn't notice anything that set off alarm bells, either." Her voice grew softer. "You know we don't always notice when something is going wrong, when someone is hurt, especially when it's a colleague in the workplace. If she had reported to Sickbay with a complaint, it would have been different. But we can't make people ask for help."

He knew this was true, knew this to be a lesson life had been trying to teach him for longer than he would admit. It was one of those things that managed to both sting his pride and prick his conscience.

"Right," he said. "You're right. Okay." He rose, wincing at the beginnings of a headache at his temples. "I think I'll go find someplace quiet for a while. Maybe outside. A spacewalk sounds good right now."

She laughed quietly, then reached out to touch his hand. Her skin was cool from holding her drink, and he covered her hand with his without thinking.

"I don't believe she could have done anything wrong, though. It's just not who she was... _is_."

"I agree, for what it's worth." Then, "Thank you, Chris."

"Have a good night, Doctor." She pulled away and leaned back into the darkness.

"You too, Lieutenant. See you tomorrow."

* * *

 _Heart's Desire_

Stardate 5962

Brodie was a skilled pilot, and I wondered briefly where he had learned his craft as the shuttle slid down smoothly and made contact with the surface with only a whisper and nary a bump.

We sat side by side in the cockpit for a moment in silence, listening to the engines power down and the metal of the shuttle creaking as it cooled, staring through the viewscreen at the terrain. As I'd asked, he had put us down in the center of this empty city, right in the middle of some sort of plaza. But suddenly I was reluctant and unsure, my earlier bravado as gossamer as the wisps of fog that, gusted away by the shuttle, now tangled restlessly around the buildings surrounding us. There was no life here, but _something_ had drawn me near.

He cleared his throat. "Ach, lassie. I don't—" he scratched at his face, hands rasping against two days' worth of beard there, an incongruous bright red in contrast with his shock of black hair. His hand hovered near the comm switch.

That was enough to catapult me out of my chair. "Right, so I'll gather up everything," I said briskly as I pulled on my jacket. "And I'll make sure my lantern is charged, there may not be much opportunity for solar power here, and see if I can consolidate—"

"Miss Tara." He had launched himself from his seat and was beside me now, grasping my arm in the cramped little cargo space, and his voice was gruff with what I chose to believe was irritation from the alien atmosphere and engine burn-off being pulled into the cabin. I refused to look at him, this strange, gentle, criminal who had shown me more kindness than I expected, and certainly more than I deserved.

"Tara," he repeated, and sighed when I would not look up. "At least let me give you some things from my supplies," he said with resignation. I stood in place as he rummaged through the cargo bins and boxes, pulling out things here and there, mumbling to himself as he considered, then discarded one item after another.

"I can only carry so much, Brodie," I finally spoke up. He stopped in place and looked at me, and the sorrow on his face was too much.

"Give me what you want, and I'll carry what I can," I snapped, my voice more harsh than I intended.

He stood for a moment, looking at the things strewn across the deck, and slowly bent to pick up a mass of fabric, a dark pearly iridescent jumble that seemed to tremble as he reached for it. It was larger than I had guessed, and looked to be made of something between down feathers and snakeskin.

"There," he said, and carefully draped it around my shoulders. "It's cold up here. You'll not last long without something to protect you."

I turned my head to examine it and gasped as it slid itself along my arms and down my back, cradling me with a soothing warmth. "What is this?" I demanded, and he gave me a watery smile, but also a trader's smile of true delight.

"Ach, that, my dear, is a rare and wonderful thing. A f'larioenn cloak from Druocury Five. 'Twill keep you warm on the coldest of nights."

"Is it alive?" I certainly didn't have the means or energy to care for something, a _pet_ , on this wretched journey of mine, but I shivered with pleasure as the cloak wrapped itself under my collar, seeming to seek out my own warmth.

"Nay, not truly alive." He cocked his head, a thoughtful look on his face. "But the Druocaans may disagree. Whatever you decide, though, rest assured," he continued, as if reading my mind, "it needs nothing more than your affection. 'Tis a hardy thing, and it will stay with you as long as you need it. It desires only to keep you safe and warm. But," he continued, almost as an afterthought, "I have been advised that giving it a name may make it…happier. And I think perhaps it's a _she_."

At that, he placed his hands on his hips and studied me. "Give me your knapsack."

I obeyed, and he added to my supplies a package of emergency rations, an extra water bottle filter, and a power pack for my lantern. I felt my eyes well up with tears and tried to blink them away. He slapped a control on the wall and the hatch opened with a hiss. Outside was what I had come looking for— _no,_ I corrected, _what had come looking for_ me—and I was filled with a combination of dread and determination as I stepped out and looked back up at my smuggler pilot.

I stood up straight, my shoulders back. "Thank you, Mister Brodie. I'll not forget you." I gave him a half-salute and strode off without clear direction and without looking back, hoping to leave him and my past behind as painlessly as possible. I didn't hear his response.

"Nor I you, lassie."

Less than a minute later, the shuttle's engines powered up again, and I felt the blowback as the fog stirred around me, enveloping me as its own. The roar of the craft intensified as it pushed against gravity and then faded, accelerating into the atmosphere and punching a hole in the gunmetal cloud cover that quickly closed, erasing all evidence of the shuttle's egress. The air was thick and damp, the silence so loud my ears rang as my brain struggled to process the abundance of absence.

I tried to swallow, my throat suddenly dry, then flipped my lantern on and turned in a slow circle to survey the alien surroundings. I had the immediate impression of ancient stone, wood, and a sense of nearby water. In the distance, a modest trek away, arose what appeared to be a modern city center with towering buildings clad in burnished surfaces of various colors. Even from here I could detect warping of the reflective material and ragged holes in the structures, irregular blank spaces in the gleaming skins that spoke of damage and neglect.

Around me, my meager yellow lantern glow revealed that at the center of the plaza was a large, ornate statue, a towering, formidable creature that appeared half-humanoid, half…something else that resonated deeply and uneasily with a thing that lurked in the recesses of my memory. Its hands held a scepter up toward the sky and I shivered, suddenly chilled, when my eyes traveled up the expanse of its powerful arms and I took in the webbing between its long fingers. I glanced down at smooth gray stonework beneath my boots, laid out in neat patterns inset with regularly-spaced round stones. I lowered to one knee to take a closer look, and saw that the decorative pieces closely resembled the iridescent glow of the seashells I sometimes happened upon while walking along the beach on one of those rare sunny San Francisco days.

Water suddenly geysered up from a ring of openings surrounding the statue and I jumped and turned, crouched, grabbing for a phaser that wasn't there. I felt a waft of warm air, and a faint, not-unpleasant tinge of sulfur, then the jets vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. I leaned over cautiously to more closely examine the openings and made out a gentle hissing of water and steam just below the stonework.

I stood and took in what lay beyond. The statue and plaza were surrounded by a ring of buildings fashioned of various colors of stone and rectangular bricks, none more than two stories, and all featuring an assortment of circular windows.

"All right," I drew a deep breath, "time to move on. Hello?" I called out as I approached the largest of the buildings, neither expecting nor receiving a response, but feeling suddenly like an intruder in the place. _Whistling past the graveyard, Tara?_ my inner voice mocked. I shook my head and reached the door, a dark imposing thing held together with sturdy strips of a smooth, shiny metallic material. Next to the door, flush against the brickwork, hung a plaque, the background fashioned from the same shimmery shell-like material as the decorations in the plaza stonework. On it was displayed a raised black script, a place-identifier, I guessed, that was at once alien and familiar, curving and twining around itself in a sinuous fashion. It seemed to blur together, and there was a ringing in my ears.

My feet suddenly felt leaden, my heart pounding erratically in my chest, and I managed to tear my eyes away, seeking out the nearest break between the structures. I made out a paved path two buildings down, leading out of the plaza, and I took off, hands and feet numb, knapsack bouncing against me, a crawling feeling on the back of my neck. My pounding footsteps rang out in the silence, amplified and yet muffled by the damp fog, as the stones underfoot gave way to a path of concrete-like substance, then a gently curving walking path, surroundings on both sides of me a blur as I focused on outrunning the panic that threatened to consume me. I stopped only when a stitch in my side made me gasp in pain and narrowed my vision to a pinhole. I bent over and reached out blindly, expecting to tumble to my knees but instead finding the comforting solidity of cool stone under my hands. _A wall_ , I realized as I forced my eyes open and the sparkles receded from my vision. It was a low barrier between two buildings that appeared to be dwellings. _Homes,_ I corrected myself. I stood there for a moment, until my breath caught up with my brain and the burning in my legs registered, and took in my surroundings.

I was outside of the city proper now, well into what I suspected would be described by most urban planners as a suburb. In the distance, to my left, were the taller buildings I had spied earlier, now farther away, hazy and indistinct in the fog and mist but standing as sentinels, I felt, over this empty and barren world. I shivered as I imagined how far away Brodie must be by now, and then wondered, not for the first time, what series of events my disappearance would have set into motion on the _Enterprise_. Doubtless I had been reported to Headquarters as being away with approval by now, and Starfleet personnel would be on the lookout for me. I fleetingly wondered if McCoy would know what to do with my _Leutscher_ experiment-in-progress, and regretted among other things not leaving better instructions. Then I shook myself and turned resolutely to survey the rest of my environs.

To my right lay clusters of smallish to moderate-sized houses, most separated by walls much like the one I leaned up against now. A little way down was an open area with small, withered tree skeletons, devoid of any greenery, and low seating around what appeared to be a recreational space. _Playground_ came to mind as my eyes flitted over it, and something tugged at my memory. I shook my head and then startled at a sudden crack of thunder that slowly eased into an ominous rumble. The sky was noticeably darker now, the clouds dragging close to the horizon, scuttling along rapidly in the increasing wind. A chemical smell, not quite ozone, not quite petrichor, made my nostrils flare, and the hairs on my arms stood up as a flash of lightning crashed against the now-purple sky. I shivered and pulled my knapsack close, looking for the nearest potential shelter. The house attached to this section of wall looked innocuous enough, with a blue door and designs painted in red around the windows, the colors faded by countless years of exposure. I willed my feet to move and found myself pushing at the entry, frantic when it didn't immediately give way, but then I sighed in relief when my hands happened across a lever that pushed the door open, assisted by a brisk gust of wind. I stepped inside and pushed the doorway closed, swinging my lantern ahead to take in the interior.

It felt oddly familiar. I knew I had never been in this place before, but something about the layout, the colors, the arrangement of left-behind belongings, struck a knowing chord in me, and I had to stand still for a moment until the sensation of déjà vu subsided. It was silent in here, but for the howling wind and now the erratic splashing of rain against the windows, and my breath, easing as the adrenaline faded. The musty smell of unused space and the layer of dust covering everything was overwhelming at first, and I sneezed several times before moving a few steps away from the door. This entry room held plush cushions stacked neatly on the floor and low tables pushed up against the walls. One wall was an assortment of devices and screens, all dark now like a bank of empty eyes.

Beyond was another room, smaller, with what appeared to be a storage unit and a food preparation area. I peeked into the closet space there, set behind a tall cabinet, hoping to find something of interest, but it, and all of the cubbies and pull-out spaces, were empty. I reached out to touch a spout set into the wall and was rewarded with a gush of warm water. The smell of sulfur was stronger here, the water having sat in a holding system undisturbed, making my nose crinkle, but the heat was a welcome diversion in the clammy chill of this place. I touched the spout again and the flow ceased.

To my disappointment, there didn't seem to be much more of interest here. Another room off the eating area held more stacks of cushions, and I took it to be a sleeping room. I suspected the people who had lived here had time to pack up everything they wanted to keep before leaving this settlement, and this planet. In fact, there was no sense of disorderliness here or in any of what I had seen so far—whatever had caused the mass exodus or demise of this population had not come upon them without warning.

I turned to the narrow stone stairway set into a recessed area near the back of the building, and, taking a deep breath, made my way towards it, leaving darkness behind me as the storm suddenly howled down in full fury. I looked up, the staircase twisting into shadows, and stepped onto the first stair. It was close in this space and I dragged my fingers along the wall for balance, the stones worn smooth as silk. My bootsteps were nearly inaudible as I ascended the spiral, losing count of the steps as it wound around and around until I began to breathe heavily and I wondered if I had entered another reality and would be trapped here for infinity, climbing toward the sky, and then without warning it came to an end. At the top, a small landing greeted me, the last feeble light of the day filtering through an enormous window. From here I could look down upon the city, as far as the plaza where my journey had begun just that afternoon. I spied the statue that had startled me with its fountain jets, tiny and almost indistinguishable in the distance. The light had taken upon a purple cast in the storm, and my lantern automatically adjusted for the dimness. There was one door up here, made of a rosy wood that gleamed in the dusky light. I pushed gently at it and it opened reluctantly, with a faint creak, and as I peered inside I smiled without thinking.

It was a child's room, without doubt, featuring miniature versions of the cushions and tables from downstairs, but in bright colors with embroidery on the fabrics and whimsical paintings of delicate flowers and furry, wide-eyed creatures decorating the furniture. In between a series of windows, the walls were a rainbow of colors, hung with a border of wreaths woven of faded ribbons and vines, the leaves long dried up and curled in among themselves. I touched one of them and it crumbled to dust beneath my fingers.

A large square painting occupied a place of prominence in the center of the largest wall. I stepped closer to examine it and my eyes widened. This was the family who had lived and loved here, I was certain. Gooseflesh popped up on my arms and a buzzing in my ears nearly drowned out the disjointed thoughts that swirled in my head as I took in the features of the beings depicted here—their eyes and skin and teeth, the hands that looked like mine had as a child. I stumbled backwards and suddenly my knees gave out, and I found myself lying on my back, staring at the ceiling as the room spun around me. I closed my eyes and for the second time since arriving here I waited for rushing and pounding of my blood to ease. I let the sounds of the storm, having spent itself into a steady, soothing patter, fill the space, and after a few minutes I risked opening one eye, then the other. The room was still now, the glow of my lantern comforting in this cozy little room. I glanced at the nearest window and saw a sliver of this world's moon peeking out from behind a tattered cloud.

"Hello, moon," I said out loud, trying to find a steadiness in my voice that I didn't feel. Then I caught a glimpse of a constellation through the window, and my heart thudded once, then twice, before settling, and I knew I was where I was mean to be.

"Oh, Tara, what have you gotten yourself into?" Then, ridiculously self-conscious in this alone place, I laughed under my breath. "Talking to yourself already? Wonder what McCoy would have to say about that, hmm?"


	9. Chapter 9

He was talking to himself when I reported for my onboarding physical, so absorbed in his monologue that he didn't even look up as the door to the exam room swished open and shut at my arrival; he was sitting at the little desk there, muttering something in an aggrieved tone and swiping through screens on the monitor with his stylus.

Then after a moment as I stood in the doorway behind him, trying not to fidget, he snapped the stylus onto the desktop, gave the monitor one last frown and finally raised his gaze. "Yes? What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked.

From his distracted expression, I wondered briefly if he remembered me from our initial meeting with Chapel over his dismantled scanner, or our awkward dinner with the captain, or even from the week's worth of morning department briefings I had shown up for so far; although admittedly I had stood in the back of Sickbay, trying to hide in a corner in an attempt to avoid being noticed.

I gripped my hands behind me and stood up straight before replying in the most neutral tone I could summon. "Chapel scheduled me for a routine physical. She said it's protocol for new crewmembers."

His eyebrows creased and his gaze slid back to the monitor, then up at me, and all at once his demeanor shifted. The prickliness radiating out from him faded and he gave me a half smile.

I marveled, not for the first time, at the jarring mood shifts my supervisor was capable of, and vowed to study his mercurial patterns more carefully in the event I ever found myself on the truly wrong end of his unpredictability.

"Right, well, it's about time then, Solorio. Yes, I do like to get to know folks, in case I ever have to patch you up at some point."

This wasn't entirely reassuring, but I forced a smile. "Yes, sir."

"Don't call me _sir_ ," he said, almost under his breath, then gestured at the exam table. "Well, hop up then."

As I passed by the desk I glanced at the monitor out of the corner of my eye, spying the flash of an appointment reminder displayed atop a paused video playback, then lay down on the table. The sensors lit up and started their beeping as he stood there beside me, absorbed by the readouts for a moment, before reaching around me to pick up a scanner.

"I need to get some baseline readings for your records, but is there anything I should know about?"

I thought about what that question and its response could encompass, momentarily caught up in the possibilities, running the gamut from _where should I start_ to _nope, peachy keen_ , and settled on a neutral middle ground.

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Good. So you're settling in all right?" he asked as he waved the device over me, occasionally glancing at the panel above me.

I nodded, about to respond, but he reached up and touched my chin. "Hold still for a second," he murmured, then brought the scanner closer to my face. The warbling from the little device was enough to set my teeth on edge, echoing painfully through my skull, and I fought the urge to pull away, controlling my breath as I had learned to do and staring at the ceiling until he finally switched it off. He gave me a curious, speculative look with eyebrows raised.

"Something interesting?" I asked through my clenched jaw, trying to ignore the lingering throbbing in my head.

He didn't respond right away, but I saw his eyes narrow at the irritation in my tone as he glanced from my readings and back to me.

"Your anatomy is unique, Lieutenant, that's all," he replied after a moment. "I knew that from your Academy medical records, but it's not every day I run across a crew member with an extra set of teeth and a vestigial echolocation structure. As a fellow scientist, I'm sure you can appreciate the opportunity to study something novel." There was a subtle chiding in his response; or was it defensiveness? Whatever the case, I had little patience for assuaging his human psychology in this moment.

"I appreciate being treated as a colleague, sir," I retorted, "not as a specimen."

At that his expression softened and he tilted his head in a manner I had come to interpret in him as apologetic. "Fair enough. I'm sorry. I assure you, I meant no disrespect."

It had been my experience that most people, especially Humans and Tellarites, struggled mightily with reparative efforts, often flinging around such pitiful phrases as _I'm sorry you feel that way_ or _I apologize_ _if I offended you_ , or even _you didn't say no, so..._ I was taken aback by his straightforward, apparently sincere admission, and I stared at him, nonplussed, for a moment, before looking away.

"No offense taken. I understand."

I could feel him looking at me for longer than was comfortable, but I kept my eyes steadfastly on the ceiling. He finally placed the scanner on a side table and reached up to switch off the sensor panel. "All right. You can sit up now."

I pushed myself up on my elbows and swung my feet around to dangle over the deck, then took a moment to adjust my hair, trying in vain to replace in haste the pins that had come loose as I lay on the bed. He stood there in front of me, watching, and I sensed that he was battling with his innate inquisitiveness.

"May I see your hands?" he finally asked. I sighed inwardly, pushed the last hairpin against the nape of my neck, and held my palms out for his inspection.

"Hmm," was his only comment as he bent his head close, then turned my hands over, first inspecting the old, blunt notches that ringed the knuckles on my right hand; then pushing my fingers apart gently to examine the silvery thread-like scars at the base of each one, in between and especially prominent in the thick, sinewy flesh between my thumb and forefinger. Then he straightened and looked up at me, his bright blue eyes as I met them reminding me of the water of his planet. Still and reflective for the moment, like a mirror lake.

"Why?"

I shrugged, suddenly flooded with self-consciousness, though there was now only curiosity in his expression.

"It was—" I tried to pull my hands away but he held them there, firmly. "They did it at the hospital. After I was…" I nearly had to bite my lip to clamp off the words, warned by a dull roaring in my ears that I knew was a harbinger of something that I could not confront in this moment. Not here, not now.

He didn't try to occupy the silence at first after I trailed off, instead waiting for me to fill the space with words, but I wasn't sure what I could say without going down a rabbit hole I wasn't prepared to navigate. But I knew that old trick many times over, and sat, quiet and still and as watchful as he was, listening to the passing voices from the corridor outside and the almost inaudible thrum of the engines. I reflected on their sounds, and realized that I quite liked listening to them, especially late at night, when I imagined their rumbling as more of a soothing call to elusive sleep than a tireless powerhouse for the ship.

"Orphaned? Abandoned?" he asked finally, giving up in the face of my placid silence. "So then someone did this to you when you were very young." His mouth tightened and an anger I didn't quite understand turned his eyes stormy. "And modified your teeth, too?"

"It didn't hurt," I protested warily, still trying to plumb out the origin of his indignation. "I don't even remember much of it. And it was to make me look more human, more likely to be…taken in," I said. "That's what Emmalin said, anyway." I wanted to snatch away the words as soon as they left my mouth, but he didn't seem to notice my alarm.

"That's hardly the point," he snapped, and I flinched. He blinked and the ire vanished as he shook his head in a dismissive gesture. "You weren't old enough to consent, but what's done is done, though I can remove those scars if you'd like. And who's Emmalin?" he asked.

"My mother," I replied. He pinned me with his gaze and I sensed him evaluating my tone and weighing the costs and benefits of lobbing that conversational ball back at me. His hands tightened, then he released me and I saw a decision there, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He busied himself with tidying up his instruments and resetting the readouts.

"You play 3D chess, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking up at the chrono on the wall, then stepped back to his desk. "I saw you looking at my display."

I flushed, guilty at having been caught out. "No, sir, I'm more of a mah jongg fan. Long-term strategy is not my strong point. There's a reason I didn't make the command track at the Academy," I added wryly.

A smile crinkled his eyes. "I'm more of a poker player myself. I was just reviewing my last game with Mr. Spock. Every once in a while, I catch him on an off day, but he mopped up the deck with me on this one. I thought you might have some pointers for my game."

"But I bet you're pretty lousy at poker, too." It came out, impertinent, before I could stop it, and my fingers flew to my lips nonetheless, another belated casualty of my mouth being quicker than my brain. I stared at him, wide-eyed, but he just shook his head.

"You're right. Strategy is not one of my strengths either, I'm afraid. A game of Go Fish is about the extent of my abilities in that arena." He crossed his arms and gave me a guileless look. "What about the other scars on your hands? Not the surgical ones?"

He caught me off-guard, and the ghost of an old, throbbing pain slithered up my spine and then down my arms, accompanied by a flashbulb memory of screaming and terror that vanished before I could push it away, trying to breathe past the lump in my throat.

I swallowed. "You ask a lot of questions, Doctor."

"I'm a curious guy. Humor me?"

"No, I don't think so."

I surmised, from the way his eyes widened and the line of his mouth thinned, that he was unaccustomed to his patients declining to disclose information. But almost as quickly as his reaction appeared, it was erased and replaced with a shrewd expression, one that made me uneasy in a way I could not define.

"All right," he said, and then there was a shift in the currents between us and I wondered how he did that. "You're free to go, Lieutenant. Oh, ah, wait, actually-" He swiped across his tablet a few times and then frowned. "You don't have an emergency contact on record."

"No, I don't."

"What about your mother. Emmalin, you said?"

"She's dead," I replied. "So if something happens to me, and you are unable to patch me up, as you said, then there is no one to notify." I waited a beat, then continued. "Am I now, actually, free to go?" I knew my tone was harsh, amplified here in this cold and sterile space, teetering on the edge of insubordinate; but perhaps he was thoughtful enough to somehow sense the thudding in my chest and the ache behind my eyes, because there was none of the reprimand I expected in his response. I chose to infer an unmerited kindness in his tone as he turned to place his tablet on the desk and gestured at the door.

"Yes, you're dismissed," he said mildly. "Lord knows I need to get back to my chess morbidity and mortality review."

* * *

 _Emmalin._ I was back in here, still alone but for the family on the wall smiling down at me, frozen in an instant of love and joy. Her name filled me at once with longing and the grief of lost comfort.

"That's what I'll call you," I whispered to the creature-not-creature that snugged itself around me as I lay on the floor in this cold and damp child's room on an alien planet that did not feel so alien after all. "Emmalin." I imagined I heard a sigh from it as I drifted off to sleep to the sound of distant rainfall.

* * *

 _U.S.S. Enterprise_

Stardate 5963

0830 hours

"Approaching the Iliria system, Captain," the _Enterprise_ helmsman announced. The shift change had just passed, and the captain's yeoman stood by his chair, juggling two cups of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other.

"Engine efficiency reports, sir." She passed the tablet to him, waited for his scribble, then tucked it under her arm while holding one of the cups toward him and the other in an outstretched hand toward Uhura, who leaned over and took it from her with a murmured thanks.

"Thank you, Yeoman," he replied, and held the coffee between his hands for a moment, enjoying the warmth, and flashing a quick smile at her. She withdrew, standing, as had become her habit, next to the engineering station for a moment to watch the bridge crew in this time of transition; then, satisfied all was well, she met Kirk's gaze and nodded before stepping into the lift.

"Slow to half impulse, Mister Sulu." _She's one to keep an eye on_ , he thought.

"Aye, sir. ETA forty-two minutes."

The little system, their destination, began to take on definition and structure on the viewscreen. Its sun, an F0 V star not terribly unlike that of Earth, shone bright and hot in the center of the system. Iliria, the second planet out, was a small, mostly rocky and icy body that traveled around it in an unusual, nearly circular orbit.

"Atmospheric readings, Mister Spock?"

The science officer looked over his shoulder at the captain. "My readings confirm the reports from their scientific advisory council, sir. The ozone layer in the upper atmosphere has deteriorated unexpectedly, resulting in extremely dangerous levels of UVB and C radiation reaching the planet surface."

"Thank you, Spock. I want you to work with Scotty on short-term shielding options. McCoy will handle medical interventions, and I'll coordinate with with the council and HQ on getting a science vessel out here for long-term assistance."

"Captain, I recommend the _T'Matik_. Her captain is most capable."

"Very well, I'll pass that along to Komack. Uhura, notify the doctor that I'm on my way down."

"Aye, sir."

The crew he passed in the corridors paused to acknowledge him with a nod or an occasional _Captain, sir,_ but they moved with the special sense of purpose he had come to recognize and appreciate in a time of preparation or crisis response. He knew there was no better ship in the fleet to first-respond to this type of event, and they knew it, too. Even with typical transfers in and out over the years, his crew still functioned as one in a crisis.

The door to Sickbay slid open at his approach, and Nurse Chapel looked up from a tray of instruments she was arranging. Crates of supplies were lined up against the wall, making the compact space feel more crowded than usual. She gave him a perfunctory smile before returning her attention to her task.

"Go on in, Captain. He's expecting you."

He nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

The doors to the exam room and office beyond were open, and he spotted McCoy standing there in front of a collection of hypospray vials and stacks of pill packets, frowning at a tablet in his hands. He looked up when Kirk tapped on the doorway and sighed. He dropped the tablet on a workbench and moved to lean back against his desk, then gestured at a chair facing him.

"Have a seat, Jim."

Kirk moved to the chair, but stood behind it, his hands resting on the back. "We're approaching Iliria."

"In other words, wrap up whatever I have going on with Solorio." He didn't bother to make it a question.

Kirk nodded. "Afraid so, Bones. I haven't seen much of you the last few days, but I know if you had turned up anything definitive, you would have let me know by now."

McCoy's shoulders rose, then slumped in defeat. "Yeah, I've learned a lot, but nothing terribly useful."

"Fill me in. I have about—" Kirk glanced at the chrono, "twenty-eight minutes."

The doctor drew a deep breath, leaned over to touch the door controls, and rubbed a weary hand across his face as it slid shut behind them. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, head bent, then looked up at Kirk with a slightly apprehensive expression. Kirk spread his hands in an impatient gesture, and McCoy nodded.

"Okay. Well, to start off, Chekov found a borderline-illegal transfer of funds out of her account in the days prior to her disappearance, a purchase of clothing and wilderness survival supplies at the base shortly before she entered Docking Bay Four, and a collection of mysterious art works and her personal journal in her quarters."

Kirk digested that for a moment, sighed, then unclenched his hands from the chair back and decided to sit after all. He settled in and crossed his legs. "It's amazing just how much people can conceal, even these days when it seems like everything is tracked and monitored, isn't it?" he mused. "Well, we can assume she used her converted account funds to pay for transport, probably expecting, rightly so," he continued, slowly piecing together her logic, "that it would delay the flagging of suspicious account activity. Anything illuminating in her journal?"

McCoy dropped into the opposite seat with a sigh and thought back to what he had read there. Her prose and script in her last entry were relatively coherent and legible, compared to the weeks leading up. And that final time, her retelling of events pretty closely aligned with his recollection, he thought glumly.

* * *

 _Last night was my first gamma shift. But I was relieved of duty and sent back to my quarters early._

 _Gods, this is unbearable. And humiliating. I can't believe this is happening._

 _I had the nightmare while I was awake, right there in the lab, so I guess it's not just a nightmare anymore, is it?_

 _It was just like the dream, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. And of course just then Doctor M'Benga came in to check on some results I had been working on and I sort of came out of it and he told me to sit down so he could check me out, said it was just a panic attack and did I want something for it, and I said no, because I knew it would make me sleepy, and that's the last thing I want, but he sent me off early anyway._

 _Then tonight, when I came in for my shift, McCoy called me into his office. I knew M'Benga had told him what happened so I said right away that I'm all right, but I could tell he didn't believe me, so I said it's probably just changing to a new shift throwing my sleep off, and he wouldn't let it go. And I said, what do you want me to do? Take some pills? Do some yoga? Meditate?_

 _But he just looked at me and said, "You know, sometimes when you're out here for the first time, that can bring up a lot of anxiety, and it's okay, it can be scary out here, I know you have a history of-"_

 _And I lost it, oh gods I yelled something at him and I was trying not to cry...I keep telling myself, it's just a few days, then we'll be at Three and I can leave, I can go. But the last few weeks it's been so hard to keep everything pent up, under control, putting on a normal face every day, getting through my shift until I can run away and be alone. I feel it_ pulling _at me, something massive, sucking me in like a planet gone too close to a black hole. How am I supposed to tell anyone about that? This must be the very definition of insanity, but how can it be, if I know it's happening? Who can I tell this to? There's no one. There's no way out of this._

What _he_ remembered from that exchange, what made him wince later, was not recorded in her writing, it was omitted from the first sentence of her last paragraph, but was burned into his recollection:

"A history of _what_? No, let me guess-but why would you be reading my psych records?" she hissed, and he raised an eyebrow and tensed, momentarily nonplussed by the vehemence in her tone, and surprised at her assumption. "Why would you would violate my privacy like that?"

He stood and leaned towards her, knuckles against his desk, and glowered at her. "You are my patient, first and foremost, Lieutenant," he said, in a sharp tone, "and as such, it is my responsibility to be informed as to your physical and psychosocial history." She tried to interrupt, but he held up a hand to silence her, eyes flashing.

"In that respect, you are no different than the other four hundred and twenty-eight crewmembers on this ship. So no, I have not unduly violated your privacy, I have _not_ singled you out, I am merely doing my duty. And you know that, so what's the outrage about?"

She had stared at him, unblinking, fists balled by her sides, chest rising and falling rapidly, and he had the sudden mental image of a dam, already crumbling around the foundation, now slowly breaching under a raging flood. He took in the weariness and agitation in her expression that far exceeded what he would expect from the aftermath of a mere panic attack, the dark smudges under her eyes and the tears pooling there, how her uniform sagged on her frame, her ragged fingernails and bloodied cuticles. Then something slammed down behind her eyes and she arranged her features into an unreadable expression. Before he could say it ( _Wait, what's really going on here? Come sit down over here, let's try this again, I'm listening now_ ), she stepped back and crossed her arms, and then she swallowed and drew a deep breath.

"I apologize for my outburst, sir, and I appreciate your concern. Perhaps I should schedule a time to discuss this with you before my next shift." She spoke tonelessly, staring at the wall behind him, and he fought down the urge—one that his forebrain told him was irrational but that he would regret ignoring later—to grab her and sit her down _now_ , while the _thing_ , whatever it was his sixth sense was picking up from her, something lurking behind her blank face, stalking her like some mythological creature of old, was not yet beyond arrest.

Instead, to his everlasting regret, he hesitated to pierce the psychic armor that she kept so diligently in place between her world and those around her.

"Yes, do that. Please." He regretted the clipped, terse tone in his voice as soon as the words left his mouth. _Countertransference will be your undoing, Leonard,_ came, unbidden, the recalled words of his old supervisor, gentle but reproving.

 _Dammit, Anna,_ he thought back at her, across all this time and distance, _it's not that simple on a starship._

Before he could rationalize a belated intervention, his lieutenant nodded once, then turned on her heel to leave.

But she hadn't done it after all, the coming back to talk, and three days later she was gone.

* * *

In the present, McCoy rubbed his eyes wearily. Kirk was looking at him, eyebrows raised. The doctor cleared his throat and called up the dry tone of a case presentation, while trying to ignore the small persistent part of his brain wondering why he was sugar-coating this for Kirk.

"Her journal starts out fairly mundane, about her transfer to the _Enterprise_ and getting settled in, all very typical day-to-day stuff written in a chronological, coherent narrative. Then about a month ago, the entries became less routine and more…erratic and surreal. She was obsessing about a dream she was having and her writing starts to devolve, becomes confused and disorganized, more stream of consciousness. Based on the episodes and symptoms she described in her journal, it sounds like she was suffering from anxiety and insomnia associated with an unusually prolonged course of sleep paralysis."

"What's that?" Kirk asked, momentarily distracted by his remembrance of a time, not so long ago, when the doctor had privately, painfully, levelled the accusation of obsession against him. He fought back a flash of resentment he knew was irrational as McCoy continued.

"Oh, you've probably experienced it at least once or twice." McCoy described the symptoms, and a distressed expression flitted across Kirk's face.

"Yeah, that sounds familiar. Once or twice…" he trailed off, his eyes elsewhere for a moment. Then, "Did you notice any changes in her behavior or job performance?"

McCoy shrugged. "Maybe she looked a little more tired, and her efficiency rating did start to lag a little. The last couple of times I saw her, she seemed preoccupied, maybe. She was experiencing what I would have at the time classified as normal adjustment issues when someone comes out here into space, _deep space,_ for the first time, but," he shifted uncomfortably, stalling, and Kirk sent an eyebrow up.

"Spit it out, Bones."

The doctor grimaced. "I, um, have reason to believe the lieutenant inappropriately removed a few units of a restricted-access agent from the dispensary a couple of days before she beamed down to the base."

It took Kirk a second or two to decipher that his CMO was saying. "What? She stole drugs?" he demanded. "How did she get around your security protocols? What is this drug used for?"

McCoy shot him a pained look. "Insomnia. Anxiety. It's a Class One drug, pretty potent stuff. And we don't know yet how she bypassed the protocols. Chapel is working on it."

Kirk studied him for a moment. "Any risk she's intending to overdose?"

McCo's eyes widened and he blanched. "I...well, I hadn't thought of that, Jim. I assumed she took it to self-medicate. I don't know, honestly."

"Hmm." Kirk considered, with no small degree of exasperation, that for all of his friend's intergalactic explorations, xenocultural insight, acclaimed research and celebrated medical genius, McCoy could still be surprisingly naive when caught up in an interpersonally-complicated situation.

"There's more, isn't there?" he asked, with growing awareness, perhaps more so than the doctor, that his lieutenant's legal situation was worsening by the moment.

The doctor slouched in his chair and let out a deep sigh. "Okay, well, she had a panic attack while on duty. No," he stopped himself and his palms turned upward. "It was probably more than just a panic attack."

Jim Kirk knew for a fact, having read through more than his fair share of the mostly de-identified medical logs produced on a weekly basis by his CMO, that panic attacks in deep space—particularly among his newer crew members who may have had nothing more than a few cruises around the Sol system with a simulated emergency or two before finding themselves in a titanium-encased bubble of carefully-controlled Earth-like atmosphere in the middle of goddamn nowhere—were anything but unusual.

"So?" he prompted.

The doctor blew his breath out all at once. "So, this was not a run-of-the-mill, wet-behind-the-ears thing, Jim," he said, as if reading his captain's thoughts again. "And I dropped the ball. I tried to talk to her about it, but I mishandled it. She clammed up tighter than an Andorian oyster at high tide, and there was no undoing it. She was already vulnerable and at-risk, and if I had known…" He pinched his lower lip between his fingers.

Kirk suspected from the timbre of McCoy's voice that there was more around that, but it wasn't the right time to push. "Hindsight, Bones," he said after a moment, aiming for somewhere between kind but firm. "When was this?"

"A few days before we arrived at Three," McCoy said, miserably.

And that, the reality remaining unspoken between them, was precisely when the flurry of activity had begun that set his errant crewmember upon a path that they could not yet fathom: the theft of drugs, the cryptocurrency conversions, and the plotting of escape. The desertion, furtive distrust, and abandonment.

And here was McCoy sitting in front of him. The doctor did not attempt to mask his worry and sense of guilt; understandable, certainly, from him, not at all out of character, but the degree of his distress concerned Kirk.

 _What's different here? Compared to all of the other crew member crises we've been through over the last few years?_ Kirk was filled with new unease. _What if this isn't just professional? What if_ — _no, good lord, she's almost young enough to be his_ —

Something, not even quite a nascent thought, something that had hovered around the margins of his awareness since all of this had started, bubbling faintly away there on the back burner of his brain, suddenly roared into a full boil and the clarity of it shocked him.

"She's not much older than Joanna, is she?" he said abruptly, without thinking.

" _What_ —? What the hell's that supposed to mean?" McCoy looked at him, brow pulled tight in a frown of equal parts perplexity and anger, and Kirk was hit with the quick, alarming awareness that he had stepped on a landmine neither of them suspected of being there.

"Never mind," he said hastily. He had known McCoy a long time, first as a physician after the _Farragut_ incident, then as a friend, then a trusted officer. He was closer than almost any other, but Kirk had learned through the years that beneath the doctor's gregarious, demonstrative persona was a very private individual, and that his remark was, in some ways, akin to a pirate demanding to board.

Through the door he could now hear the muffled voices of Chapel and another crew member, the cadence of counting off inventories, and the clatter of crates being shuffled around. He waited until he felt the turbulence in the air between them settle a bit before continuing. "We're doing the best we can with this, Bones."

"Yeah." The doctor's tone was glum, and after a moment, Kirk gave him a gently chiding look.

"Will you be finished with the self-flagellation soon, Doctor?" he asked. "I need your full attention to the matter at hand. And you didn't cause this situation, you know."

"Maybe I didn't cause it, but I could have prevented it." There was a stubborn set to the doctor's jaw that told Kirk he would not be easily-convinced of his lack of culpability.

"You're only human. No point in dwelling on what might have been. What is it you say sometimes? _Water under the bridge_?"

At that, the doctor leaned forward. "I just don't think she's an impulsive, abandon-everything deserter, Jim," he said, a sudden intensity in his tone, "any more than I think she's a budding terrorist. We've seen those before once in a while, the former anyway, and she doesn't fit that profile. She's smart and resourceful and methodical, a kid who had to grow up faster than she should have. I know that much from reading her records and observing her work. Maybe there's a solid reason she's done this, and I feel like she deserves a fair hearing, despite what Noel thinks."

Kirk studied his old friend for a moment, choosing his next words with care. "If this wasn't an impulsive act of escaping her service commitment, and not an attempt to join up with enemy actors, then what does that leave us with, Bones? What's going on here, really?"

McCoy averted his gaze, but Kirk could see the conflict and doubt in the doctor's eyes. "I wish I could say," the doctor replied heavily after a moment. "I think she's driven by something she couldn't—or wouldn't—disclose to me. Maybe she thought she would be, I don't know, removed from duty, reassigned, medically discharged if she told me what was going on, or all of the above? I just don't know what was going on in her head."

Kirk thought he could almost hold the doctor's regret in his hands, it was so tangible between them, but he knew he could not bear that burden, not on top of everything else unraveling in real time, right here and right now. He blew out his breath quietly.

"Then let's hope that her brains and determination are sufficient to get her through. We can't subvert Intelligence, but we'll continue to keep our eyes and ears open. Chekov thinks he has a source who will apprise him of any new intel." He glanced at the chrono and stood, then gave McCoy a reassuring half-smile. "If anything, if it turns out that she was medically unfit at the time she disappeared, that will work in her favor when she's located and brought to court martial. So we'll do what we can, and hope for the best."

McCoy sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, where he felt a doozy of a headache building in the muscles there. "That's all we can ever do, I suppose, Jim."


	10. Chapter 10

**I'm putting this chapter up a few days early because I'm about to have limited internet for a bit. Next chapter will be up the following weekend :) Cheers.**

* * *

 _Deep Space Three_

Two months later

Stardate 6021

Starfleet Intelligence Detachment

Doctor Helen Noel willed her fists to unclench as she surveyed the man seated in front of her, seething as the labels she wanted to hurl at him took over her inner voice: _Traitor. Criminal._ She wondered briefly what Robert would do if he were here, if he were watching over her now, and imagined she felt a wave of approval from him. She breathed deeply and forced her voice into the warm yet clinically detached register she'd trained for with such dedication.

"Mister Brodie. Police record code Z385916. Race, height, weight, hair, eyes…all seems to match up to you, no? Also known as Bradley, Brolochan, and O'Brolchain?" The names were strange and unwieldy in her mouth. She was pleased when the man fidgeted but gave her a lopsided grin.

"Yes, ma'am, all of that is true." He looked at her without apparent fear, despite the manacles that bound his hands behind the back of the chair in which he sat, and she had to admire his composure. She had taken great pains to transform her little inner office, down here in the bowels of the base far away from prying eyes, into a sterile place devoid of any comforts, yet the man seemed unfazed by the environment or his circumstances.

She pretended to study the printout in her hands, then looked up at him with a grave expression, and all pretense of friendliness vanished.

"Mister Brodie, it says here you were expelled from Starfleet Academy in your second year," she said. "On the fast track to flight school, and yet you threw it all away for a bit of…disorderly conduct and theft of Starfleet property."

"Oh, it was only a joy ride over the bay, ma'am," he protested. "Just a couple of kids havin' fun."

"You will address me as _Doctor._ And," she continued as if he had not spoken, "it looks like you never appeared for your disciplinary hearing. You simply disappeared." She stepped back and gave him a reproachful look. "I'm not sure you've ever been formally discharged from the Service, Mister Brodie. That could severely complicate your situation here. This is your _third_ arrest on piracy and smuggling charges, is it not?"

"Yes, ma'am. _Doctor_ ," he amended. "Is that why I'm down here and not up there?" he chuckled nervously, indicating the decks above with his chin. "Usually they just slap me with a fine and send me on my way."

"Mmm. No, it's a bit trickier this time," she murmured, then leaned in and was pleased when he shrank away, his dark eyes widening. "You do not seem to appreciate the gravity of your position, Mister Brodie. This is no ordinary arrest. You see, you've been remanded into _my_ custody this time, and I am Starfleet Intelligence. You are no longer under the protection of Federation treaties and prisoner agreements. I operate outside of the system."

She circled around him slowly, taking no excessive pleasure in the apprehension she now sensed emanating from him, as his breath accelerated and his skin glistened with sweat. That could easily be explained by his newfound understanding of his situation, she thought, or perhaps by the apparatus she now lifted from a nearby table and fitted carefully around his head. There was a satisfying metallic click as it clamped into place.

She stopped there, behind him, and he craned his neck trying to look at her, but was caught short by the restraint. "We think you were involved in something more than merely pirating activities, Mister Brodie. Something more like providing safe passage to a suspected terrorist."

His hands clenched around the restraints, his knuckles whitening. "I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded uncertain now, with a twinge of fear, and _that_ finally induced a thrill of adrenaline through her, tingling her extremities and quickening her own breath. She took a moment to steady herself before making her way into his field of vision again.

"Oh, we'll figure it all out, not to worry," she said kindly. "But really, what I'd like to know more about is a certain passenger you had aboard your little ship a while back. Do you happen to recognize this person?" She waved her hand over a device cupped in her palm and a small holo of a female in a Starfleet cadet uniform appeared, almost certainly a graduation picture from the flag in the background and her solemn demeanor. He groaned under his breath, and she reached out and gently touched his cheek, grasping his head firmly when he tried to jerk away. His eyes widened and a note of impatience crept into her tone.

"Look closely now. Yes, you know her, don't you? We searched diligently for you, and it took us some time, much longer than I had hoped, but we suspected you might have been the one she sought out for illegal passage. Why don't you tell me all about her, hmm?"

When he shook his head resolutely, as much as the restraint allowed, she sighed and walked over to a bench just to her left.

"The walls here are soundproofed, Mister Brodie. Just keep that in mind." When she picked up an instrument from the bench she saw his toes curl up in tips of his boots and she bit her lip to suppress her smile.

* * *

Resliv III

Stardate unknown

I've lost all concept of time. After spending a night in that house to wait out the storm, it took me a day to pick my way through the rest of the city and its neighborhoods, stopping here and there to search carefully through any particularly promising and interesting buildings. I had collected some additional supplies in my scavenging: another knife, a waterproof cloak, and an extra pair of boots. The latter were currently tied together by their laces and hanging around my neck, bumping against my chest with every step, drying as best they could in this perpetually damp place. I stopped, arrested by a sudden thought, and flipped them around, looping the laces of one through the strap of my knapsack to keep them from digging into my throat. The boots now bounced against my back, competing with the knapsack that thumped against my shoulder in counterpoint, but it was a much more comfortable situation. Tomorrow I would switch that pair out with the ones on my feet now.

I was making my way gradually northward, according to the compass in my lantern, trudging through the mud that never ended but that over the last few days had started to become more solid as the temperature began to drop. My breath now puffed out in little pockets of condensation when I had to make my way uphill and my progress had slowed as I had trouble navigating with the numbness that spread now from my toes to my ankles. The terrain made it difficult to monitor my surroundings as much as I'd like to, lest I trip over one of the numerous rocks and clumps of spiky brown weeds poking up through the sludge. It was more than just thick watery silt or clay; occasionally I encountered a patch of non-Newtonian fluid in this place, or at least I assumed it was such when I prodded at it cautiously with a stick, and I avoided those, distrustful of their stability. I knew what I would see if I looked up, though—the same thing I had seen since I'd disembarked from Brodie's shuttle and set off in the direction that tugged at my heart: flat iron gray sky far overhead; low-slung wispy clouds scuttling quickly above the horizon; then at eye level occasional scrubby vegetation and a few scatterings of sickly-looking trees.

Emmalin had become my traveling companion—neither animate nor lifeless, she seemed to inhabit a zone of existence somewhere between worlds, and it had often occurred to me that we had that much in common. I felt pulled against my will to something that the deepest, most candid part of me acknowledged could not be explained rationally; yet, I was unable to return to the land of reality as long as I was drawn irresistibly toward it. Emmalin was content to live in that nether-space with me, seeming to sense when a gentle squeeze or a stroke against my arm would quiet the turmoil in my head.

I paused to adjust my right boot and shake off a clod of stickier-than-usual slime and detected, much to my relief, the gentle rush of water off to my right. I slopped my way over and saw a braided stream making its way briskly over a bed of water-smoothed rocks. Pushing my way through a scraggly row of low shrubs, I knelt there on the banks, feeling my trouser legs squish into the ground, and dipped a finger into the flow. It was cool and ran briskly by, barren of any life I could see. I removed the top from my empty water bottle and dipped it into the flow until it filled, then replaced the filtration unit and waited a moment for the purified water to trickle through before taking a long drink from it. I stood, swiped a stray drop of water from my mouth, and made my way back from the shore onto more stable ground and, orienting myself _that way_ , took off again.

Based on my steadily dwindling but carefully rationed supplies, I had been here for a little more than seven Standard weeks. I had seen no evidence of former inhabitants since my departure from the area around the city. In fact, I had encountered no other life save a few small mammals that skittered away at my approach; a type of small insect that feasted on me at night, creating insanely itchy welts on my legs until I learned what their mounds looked like and how to avoid them; and once, an enormous flying creature that descended to the level of a nearby treetop and proceeded to circle over me slowly, an eerie cawing sound emanating from its hooked beak. I tried to ignore the sharp talons it flexed before it lost interest and disappeared into the clouds.

I slept on the ground, seeking out what meager shelter the trees provided when it rained, as it often did—sometimes an unexpected downpour, most times a near-constant, miserable drizzle that made me shiver and got into my boots during the day, causing blisters that were at first unbearable, but had over time settled into a distant, grinding ache as my feet became progressively colder. On rare dry nights I was sometimes able to scrape together enough organic material to start a small fire, and I would sit there, staring into it, trying desperately to empty my mind and lose myself in the flames, or watching the aurorae dance across the sky and hoping not to sleep. But inevitably the crackling and warmth and soothing patterns in the sky would lull me into a light sleep, and then it would come, as it always did, and I would gasp awake, choking, and cry out and beg it to tell me what to do. I sensed no true malevolence in it, but its confusion and pain and anger was growing stronger as I traveled toward it and it was, I felt with a hopeless dread, becoming more than I could bear at times.

One night, when the clouds were low and oppressive and the moonlight dim behind them, and the silence heavy, I found myself—unsure how I arrived there—standing at the edge of a lake, taking my boots off and methodically filling my pockets with stones in a distant dreamstate, until something seemed to stab my brain and I fully woke and fled back to my campsite, horrified and sobbing in despair. Emmalin tightened herself around me and I imagined I could hear a low, soothing hum from her, but my breath was painful in my chest and my skull was throbbing with the tears that wouldn't end.

Emmalin—the real Emmalin, my mother-not-mother—had learned that when I couldn't stop the screams, when my dreams became more than my young mind could bear, that holding me tightly could cut the panic like a spoonful of sugar could ease the fire of a _ryalin_ pepper, reducing it from blistering pain to mere throbbing. I tried to recall that feeling, of being wrapped up by her sure and gentle embrace, the lullaby she crooned in her lilting alto, and in my terror could not dredge up the memory that had always brought me comfort in dark times. Then the cold part of my mind, that always made me quake with dread, cut in with the brutal reality: _You'll never have that again, Tara. Never._ I felt something bend—an unbearable tension and pulling-apart—then break and uncleave inside of me, and my head filled with a painful ringing.

"Please, make this stop. I can't go on like this," I cried out into the night sky toward the thing that drew me inexorably, my voice hoarse with screaming. Then it stopped, and with the sudden silence in my head I slumped to the ground and closed my eyes, swollen and stinging from my tears. " _Why am I here? What are you? Where are you?"_ I begged into the darkness, no longer sure if I was awake or asleep. There was no answer, and I pulled my knees up to my chest and buried my head there, rocking against the waves of anguish that washed through me.

* * *

USS _Enterprise_

Stardate 6021

McCoy had never been prone to frequent nightmares. He'd had the standard variations on a theme that most humans experienced over their lifetimes, often in times of stress or transition: oversleeping an exam, teeth falling out, being chased by something through the dark. Like most people, when he woke, he brushed off the nocturnal nasties, told himself to practice better sleep hygiene and cut back on the caffeine (advice he ignored and forgot about just as promptly as did his patients), and went about his day.

There was one recurrent dream, though, that stood out from the rest, and not in a way that he cared to meditate upon at great length.

* * *

It always started out the same: at his parents' place in the country, tucked away off a dusty, windy road that ran between the big lake whose name he could never remember and the sprawling forest at the southern end of the Appalachian Trail, with its gently rolling hills and quiet, misty pathways that meandered beneath the reaching, narrow trees.

It was a small place, more of a cabin, really, where once in a while when his dad got a weekend off-call they could escape the suffocating noise and chaos of the city for a chance to breathe air untainted by millions of humans and their creations and energies. He had learned to fish there, reluctantly; and later learned how to build a fire and read a compass and to listen closely to what the trees and birds had to say. He had experienced his first, exhilarating kiss in that place, when Elsie Banks and her family came along one weekend and they snuck away behind a storage shed while the adults played card games and drank bourbon. He had slept deeply, soundly there, sometimes wrapped snug on a cot inside, sometimes in a sleeping bag under the stars, always lulled to slumber by the songs of the katydids and tree frogs.

Tucked away on a shelf inside the safest recesses of his heart, the place held only warm, fond memories that he would pull out and wrap around himself after an especially difficult shift or a planet or an away team experience he would rather forget than remember. It was his guaranteed-to-cure-what-ails-you remedy to a bad day that rarely failed to deliver.

Except, of course, when his brain decided to yank that rug out from underneath him and that special place made a top billing appearance in the one nightmare that he had never been able to conquer with talking-through, or to shake off easily. That the place of his most treasured childhood memories was the setting only made it more horrific. When it happened and then he awoke, the memory of it always lingered throughout his day, like a thick oily slick over his psyche; slowly dripping off, but also suddenly flaring up at inopportune times, blooming his chest with dread, until he could finally, ferociously smother it with a half bottle of whiskey or a sleeping pill. Or sometimes both.

On this particular night, after a day that was as far as he could recall, otherwise unextraordinary, this was the dream that his subconscious decided to tee up as the opening act.

In the dream, he was no longer a child. In fact, he was always an adult, a father, since Joanna was there, too. She was young in this ephemeral timeless place, as he remembered her at five or six years old, just coming off a growth spurt, coltish and knock-kneed and enchanting, her hair tangled around the clasp that held it back, her eyes, blue like his, dancing with laughter.

" _It's your turn to count_!" she cried, jumping in place with excitement. She never tired of playing hide-and-seek, even when they had used up all of the handful of hiding places in the cabin several times over, and he tolerated it because how often did he get her to himself, without distractions or formalities or tensions?

She ran off before he could cover his eyes, and he began counting slowly—she got _twenty_ , because, according to her child logic, she needed more time to disappear, while he would only get _ten_ from her—and that's when it usually happened. There would be an odd moving outside of himself, and he was suddenly watching the scene as from above, and that's when he would realize that it was a dream, and become aware that this was a recurrent realization that he never remembered after waking. It was the cruelest sort of lucidity: knowing, but not _enough_ knowing to change anything that would happen from this point. And so he was relegated to helplessly watching the dream play out from the sidelines, paralyzed and mute.

He watched himself count to twenty, unable to move his hands from his eyes until the end, and then he slowly lowered them, and stood still and listening, but hearing nothing. He was in the kitchen, the central part of the cabin—the sink to his left, table front and center, cooler and replicator to his right—and she could not have gone far in just those few seconds. He knew there were always sounds out here: the creaking of this old structure, birds calling to one another, squirrels rustling through the ground cover, wind scraping tree branches across a window. But now, in this dream, there was nothing. No nature, no scuffling of little girl shoes, no muffled giggling inviting him to search her out.

Then the back door, one of those old-fashioned screened-in doors, squeaked and bumped against the frame and he jumped. He had told her not to go outside for this game, not until she was a little older, because he fretted about snakes and hidden depressions in the ground covered with leaves that she would not see until she stumbled; and the creek, which appeared without warning below a steep, slippery slope, just beyond a thick copse of eastern hemlock.

He was outside now, as happened in dreams sometimes, and it was dark, the tree trunks and limbs gray, motionless outlines against the empty inky sky. If this were real space, he thought, the heavens above would be blanketed with millions of pinpoints of twinkling stars alomgside the steady glow of planets, and the gems of the Milky Way would be scattered magnificently across all of it. But this was _not_ real, and he knew now, he remembered what was next, and would have groaned if his lungs and vocal chords worked in this hideous other space.

Instead he was propelled, gliding without will, as he knew he must be, toward the far grouping of trees, the leaves silent under his feet.

"Joanna?" he tried to call out, and his dream mouth refused to open. " _Joanna!_ " he screamed inside, hopelessness filling his middle and slowly pushing upward, constricting his dream breath as he was suddenly there, on the banks of the creek, and though he tried to look away, he must see it, the figure that was always there, kneeling just along the edge of it, facing away from him, its hands pushing something down into the water. Something small and helpless and silent and still, its tiny hand just visible, floating motionless in the gentle waters. And when the figure turned to look at him he knew with the deepest sorrow who it would be. It could only be his father, who he had killed so many years ago.

But this time when it rose from where it crouched and advanced toward him with hands outstretched, and he lunged sideways past it to look desperately into the water, the last thing he glimpsed before it grabbed him was not Joanna, but this time someone else he felt he had left behind, and the shock knocked the breath out of him just as the thing clutched at him and—

* * *

He wrenched awake, gasping, the visceral feeling of its hands still around his chest making him shudder and curl away and bat off clammy phantom fingers until he could twist his way out of the covers and come fully upright in his bunk. The shrieking in his head turned out to be coming from him, and he clamped his jaws together to stop it.

"Lights, fifty percent," he rasped out, skin still crawling at the lingering violation of the thing. The _not Dad,_ he reassured himself. The thing that had not been holding down Joanna this time, but Solorio instead.

What Kirk had said that night that seemed so long ago, almost offhandedly, then taken back so quickly; the thought that he had buried as soon as it registered, came back with a rush, and he slumped over, rubbing his face in resignation.

 _Christ on a crutch, McCoy. You're in over your head this time._

He made a decision, one he now realized had been inevitable, rolled over and slapped the toggle on his comm unit. The monitor came awake, its screen dimmed to night mode, overlaid with the white arrowhead Fleet insignia. He squinted against it.

"Computer, local time, San Francisco, Earth."

"The local time in San Francisco, Earth, is fourteen hundred twenty-two hours."

 _Well, no time like the present._

"Your vital signs exceed safety parameters," Computer continued calmly. "Do you require medical assistance?"

He glowered at the disembodied voice. "No, I do not require medical assistance, Computer. And," he added, "as Chief Medical Officer I forbid you to alert Lieutenant Chapel."

There was a whirring, and a hesitation.

"Computer, confirm," he said sharply.

"Confirmed," it replied, and he imagined there was a note of reluctance in its tone. He muttered an epithet at it and turned his attention back to the monitor.

"Bridge. Communications."

The screen resolved into the image of a young crewman, whose name he could not quite recall— _Wallers? Walton?_ The man swiveled in his chair to face the video input: human, dark skin, black hair parted precisely and a baby face he was trying to conceal with a sparse but hopeful mustache.

"Ensign Walker here, sir. What can I do for you?"

He remembered him now, an overly officious man who, according to Uhura, had just barely squeaked past the officer's qual exam, then was allowed on the bridge of the Fleet's flagship only through a legacy relationship. She had not bothered to hide her scorn, nor, as he heard through the grapevine, had she pulled any punches on his quarterly review. McCoy suspected Walker might soon find himself invited not to return.

"I need a live video link with Commodore Anna Seifert, Starfleet Medical, psychiatric division, patched down to my quarters."

"Sir, that would off-line all comms backups to—"

"I know it's not standard procedure, Ensign." He pushed down the impatience he felt, knowing it would only slow his progress, and managed a smile. "I know it eats up eighteen percent of our available comms bandwidth—no, make that twenty-two percent, because I want it encrypted, too. So go ahead and page the captain, son. Wake him up in the middle of the night to ask his permission to make a long-distance call. I don't mind waiting." He folded his hands together in what he hoped was a projection of serenity.

The muscles alongside the ensign's jaw tightened— _good,_ McCoy thought uncharitably, _a little interpersonal conflict will serve him well_ —then the man glanced to his left, toward the center seat, and there was a murmur from offscreen, and the ensign's shoulders relaxed.

"That won't be necessary, sir. Mister Spock has authorized the transaction. One moment, please."

Of course Spock was there. McCoy suspected the Vulcan picked up random night shifts just to keep the junior bridge crew on their toes, gods help them all.

The audio link to the bridge went mute but the video was still live, and he watched the ensign turn back to the comm board and tap several buttons. His mouth moved, he touched his ear piece, and a frown appeared.

McCoy sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, reminding himself to _breathe_ and _find something to focus on,_ wondering if his patients ever thought that advice was as asinine as he currently reckoned it to be. His heart rate had slowed somewhat, though, and the ringing in his ears had faded by the time Walker turned back and nodded at him; then in rapid sequence the bridge visual shimmered and the Starfleet insignia flashed, then disappeared and was replaced with a virtual cue, the opening and closing of a door as if he were entering an office.

She had a live concierge sitting at the desk there, an expensive rarity among Fleet personnel these days. The concierge was of indeterminate gender and origin, temporarily disconcerting to McCoy, but he nodded in the most universally-accepted mode of greeting.

"Hello."

"Greetings, and welcome you to Doctor Seifert's office," it replied. "Who calls?"

 _Definitely not human_. "Leonard McCoy, CMO, USS _Enterprise_. And no, she's not expecting me, but we know each other and I would like very much to borrow a few moments of her time for a patient consult."

"Borrow time?" Its brow furrowed, then smoothed, and it gave him a look he could only interpret as conspiratorial. "Ah, very well." The being paused and looked away, presumably to review a schedule. "Doctor Seifert will be currently in session for approximately eighteen minutes. She then had fifty-five minutes available. Hold you?"

He had to bite down a snort at that one, and felt the tension in his neck ease a little. "Yes, I'll hold." He wondered just how much of a tongue-lashing he was due for when Uhura next ran her efficiency reports.

"Thank." Its image vanished, replaced with a visual of swirling soothing pastels that he suspected would be calibrated for various electromagnetic spectrums; and a faint, tinny rendition of _Swan Lake_ , in, _good lord_ , accordian.

He grimaced and tried to put his thoughts in order, knowing that Anna of all people would not tolerate his bullshit. He wondered how long it had been since they had talked, and could not recall. Maybe after that business on Platonius or _jesus_ Minara. When it came to patients, he usually bounced things off M'Benga, or one of the nurses; or, if more discretion was called for, he could call up another CMO with an appropriate background. But this was different. This was—

"Doctor was with you in two moments," the concierge broke in, and before he could respond, Anna's image appeared. She sat at her old, battered wooden desk, looking the same as always: small, kind face, and bright eyes that didn't miss anything. Photo frames, even more numerous than in the past, were still turned away from the viewscreen. Today her cardigan was blue, a deep cerulean that nicely complemented the patch of Earth sky he glimpsed through the window behind her. A shuttle, much like the ones sitting in the _Enterprise's_ bay right now, slid past noiselessly in that space, angling down to land at what he guessed to be the Academy loading dock.

"You really should reconsider your hold music, Anna," he said before she could speak, and he was mortified at the agitation in his voice. "It's enough to make me want to put chopsticks through my eyeballs. Hell, it could send some people over the edge."

"Hello to you, too, Leonard," she replied mildly.

"You're still seeing patients?" He had his voice under control now, but from her watchful posture he knew he wasn't fooling her.

" _Still,_ Leonard? What I wouldn't give to be demoted back to a mere practitioner."

He smiled, and to his relief it felt real, and he drew the first full breath since he woke that didn't threaten to pull his insides apart.

"Your receptionist seems to be temporally challenged."

She allowed him a small smile. "Zhe is learning. As are we all, no? But you didn't call me all the way from wherever you are just to chit chat—are you off duty, Leonard? It must be the middle of the night there." The faintest of wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows.

He glanced down at his rumpled black undershirt and wondered briefly about the state of his hair.

"You might say that."

"Hmm. One moment, please." The upper half of her body disappeared sideways as she reached for something on her right, then reappeared, tea cup in hand.

"Chamomile?"

"You know me too well." She stirred with a tiny, delicate spoon, then sipped, eyes never leaving his. She placed the cup on her desk and folded her hands there. "This isn't really about a patient consult, is it?"

"Well..not entirely." He had to glance away for a moment to keep from squirming under the intensity of her gaze.

Her chair creaked as she settled into it, and when he was able to bring his eyes back, her eyes were steady and without judgment.

"What can I help you with, Leonard?"

He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Well. Um, one of our crewmembers went missing. She worked in my lab."

"Mmm hmm." She nodded and waited. Behind her, a cloud, one of the low, brooding ones that often heralded a sudden rainstorm there, slid into the frame of her window, and the ambient light dimmed momentarily until the sensors compensated.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, she went absent without leave. Or she deserted, I guess, at this point. It's been a couple of months now."

She blinked at him, but her face had become unreadable. The silence stretched out and he fought and lost the urge to fill it.

"I may have had some role in not preventing that." The words came out in a rush and as soon as they left his mouth, he scowled at her. "Dammit, Anna, don't play shrink with me!"

She let that pass without comment as she picked up and sipped from her tea cup, a crinkling of amusement around her eyes.

"You have always struggled with the silence of others, Leonard. Now, why don't you tell me what's _really_ going on?"

He sighed. And told her about the dream, and his father in it, and Joanna. Then, finally, Solorio.

* * *

 **Dr. Anna Seifert is a little character I created for a story I wrote under my Kelvin-verse account, JuniorMintJulep, in the highly unlikely event anyone has read that story and remembers that character, and thinks I am stealing another writer's creation. I don't own** _ **Star Trek**_ **(why would I want to do** _ **that**_ **?), but I granted myself permission to use some of my head canon over here in the Prime universe.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Heads up: science-y stuff ahead. Next week we will get back to more people-y stuff, I promise.**

* * *

 _Deep Space 3_

Stardate 6025

Starfleet Intelligence Detachment

" _Resliv,_ " he choked out, his words slurred by his swollen tongue and the blood dripping from the gaps in his lower teeth. One of the overhead lights flickered, obscuring his face in shadow for a few seconds. Helen Noel glanced up at it and made a mental note to submit a second maintenance request for replacement.

"Thank you, Mister Brodie," she said, and the tool she had been using clattered against the tray as she placed it there, neatly finishing off a row of four glistening molars, snagged with bits of drying tissue and smears of blood. Numbers three, fourteen, thirty, and nineteen, if she remembered her dental anatomy correctly. Nothing Starfleet Dental couldn't put right, once he got where he was going.

Standing at her side she thought she could hear Robert murmur encouragement in her ear, and she smiled sideways at him. She wished for the thousandth time that she had somehow acquired a copy of the specs for Adams' neural neutralizer before the _Enterprise's_ CMO had dismantled it, or had been granted access to some of the new tech she'd heard rumors of, being developed somewhere on a dark planet that would not appear on any star charts she would find in the base's libraries. She had tried to recall the mechanics of Adams' device, to envision the workings of the machine that lay beneath the dials and displays that she remembered in that control room; Doctor Adams, of course, was regrettably unavailable for consultation after Kirk's interference. So after much experimentation with ill-gotten and hapless tribbles she had constructed a crude facsimile, an instrument that delivered targeted neurostimulation and synthetic pain; but to her disappointment, when she finally hooked it up to Brodie, her first human subject, it had only turned his speech unintelligible and caused frequent, bothersome lapses into unconsciousness.

So in frustration-fueled impatience she had resorted to a practice she realized with some regret would cost her the ability to practice medicine in any legitimate capacity within the Federation if she were found out, but then she wasn't planning on this episode becoming a crucial point of order in any proceedings to come. _Not when I track down that traitorous little bitch and get what I need out of her_ , she thought, rage flashing through her, so potent that her hands shook.

But this kind of torture, this primitive hands-on approach, was so very messy and unreliable and _personal,_ and necessitated so much collateral damage. Not to mention the cleanup later. But she could not deny the efficiency of the method. Federation citizens, even those living along the margins of mainstream law-abiding cultures and beyond, were soft and unused to being handled roughly by those in authority. Brodie had been so shocked by her treatment of him that he had broken much more quickly than she anticipated. She wondered only briefly if her consequent disappointment reflected poorly on her character.

 _Isn't this rather pedestrian for you, Helen? I can introduce you to some of the techniques I learned from the Klingons,_ Robert whispered, and she shushed him away with a glare.

"Not now, Robert," she snapped, and at that Brodie swung his head up to look around, blearily, confusion mixed with fatigue in his eyes.

"Who's here?" he asked, listlessly, but it came out more like _whoozeer_?

She patted his shoulder. "He's of no importance to you, Mister Brodie. Would you like some water now?" she asked kindly.

He slurped at the glass she held out to him, and she stepped back, distaste washing over her as the water dribbled down his shirt, mingling with blood there.

"Very good. Now, as we discussed, Starfleet is willing to reduce your piracy sentence to only thirty-six months in a penal colony in exchange for the information you have provided. I happen to know of an excellent facility that will be just the right fit for you. The therapists there will help you forget all about the last few days, and you'll find that you're much happier without these terrible antisocial impulses you've been suffering with for so long. I've already contacted Tantalus to let them know you'll be arriving soon."

She got only a desperate groan in response as she set the glass down next to his displaced teeth and then walked briskly toward the doorway.

"Wait!" his voice was raspy and weak, but its urgency stopped her in her tracks. She did not turn, fists clenched in irritation at the delay.

He coughed wetly, his breath rattling. "I was going to check on her. I promised myself I would go back to get her," he choked out. "She won't make it there much longer."

She smiled to herself.

"Oh, don't worry, Mister Brodie," she replied, allowing warmth to suffuse her voice. "I'll take good care of her."

She ignored his broken sobs as she exited, and as the door slid behind her, her ensign looked up at her approach; at least, she assumed it did, from the change in its position. She could never entirely read its expression, but really, a stupid multi-tentacled cephalopod was probably the best switchboard operator she could ask for out here in the backwaters of the Federation.

"Open an encrypted channel to Colonel Addicks at Intelligence in my anteroom, Ensign," she clipped out and continued to the other side of the narrow room without waiting for an acknowledgement. The ensign dutifully tapped in the code it had been provided with earlier with one tentacle, then, pausing to ensure the door had slid shut behind the doctor, reached across its board to enter another call code. _Soundproof, my ink sac,_ it thought in disgust. _Ignorant human._ It placed a small receiver into one of its head fins so as to muffle the broadcasting of the response that came through the second channel.

" _Enterprise. This is Lieutenant Uhura."_

* * *

 _U.S.S. Enterprise_

Stardate 6025

2200 hours

"I don't know, Jim. It was an adventure, no argument there, but _pleasure planet_ would be a stretch. I'll take Risa any time."

"I suppose getting run through with a lance could put a damper on your shore leave," Kirk conceded just as the buzzer at his door went off. McCoy placed his glass on the desk and Kirk landed the back of his chair on the deck before straightening his tunic.

"Enter."

Ensign Chekov stepped inside and nodded deferentially to them both then took a breath before speaking. "Excuse me, sirs, sorry to interrupt."

"What is it, Chekov?" Kirk replied around a yawn. The bottle of bourbon Bones had brought with him had mellowed him far more than he expected.

Chekov took a breath and stood at attention. "Captain, I wish to report that Lieutenant Uhura has relayed to me an encrypted message from, ah, a source…that indicates that Lieutenant Solorio's location has been ascertained by the Starfleet Intelligence Detachment on Deep Space Three. My source indicates that an Intelligence staff member intends to depart for the lieutenant's location within three standard days."

 _The good Doctor Noel_ , Kirk thought grimly.

"Pass along our thanks to Ensign Tentacles," Bones murmured as he took a sip of his drink.

Chekov flushed but did not dispute the appellation.

"Any indication of where they might be headed?" All the geniality disappeared from the captain's demeanor as he pinned the ensign with his gaze.

"Yes, sir. It's possible that their destination lies within the Resliv system, sir," he replied carefully. "At typical light shuttle speed, the system is approximately forty-nine hours away from Three."

"And at warp five we are—?" Kirk's questioned.

Chekov looked up at the ceiling, running calculations in his head. "At warp five, _Enterprise_ is thirty-six hours away."

"Thank you, Ensign." He reached over to flip the comm switch. "Bridge."

"Spock here." His first officer was supposed to be off-duty, but he had become accustomed to the Vulcan's uncanny affinity for being close at hand when a pressing situation was imminent.

"Mister Spock, lay in a course for the Resliv system, warp five. Exact destination to be determined."

"Laying in course change, Captain." There was a pause before his response, but no hint of surprise in the Vulcan's tone, and Kirk assumed that with the receipt of the encrypted message for Chekov he had already deduced the reasoning behind the unexpected detour.

"Kirk out." He flicked the comm unit off. "Thank you, Mister Chekov." The dismissal was warm, but clear, but the ensign did not depart. He stood at attention, eyes set on the wall behind the captain's desk.

Kirk leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. "Something else you'd like to report, Ensign?"

The young man nodded once, sharply. "Yes sir. My er, source also provided additional information about the Intelligence agent in question."

Kirk sighed. "Yes, Doctor Noel. We know, Chekov. No need to be so cloak and dagger in here." He smiled to soften the rebuke. "What is it?"

Chekov's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly and he nodded. "Well, sir, it seems the doctor was ordered by her CO not to proceed to Resliv. Yet her flight plans indicate she is preparing to depart shortly. I do not understand."

At that, Kirk's mouth lifted in a slow smile that did not reach his eyes. "No, I don't suppose I do, either, Ensign. Thank you. I appreciate your diligence and discretion in this matter."

"Yes, sir." Chekov ducked his head, then nodded and turned to exit. After the door slid shut behind him McCoy turned to Kirk, his expression perturbed.

"What the hell do you make of that, Jim?"

"I was about to ask you the same, Doctor. Helen—" he stopped himself "—Doctor Noel struck me as someone who would be first to fall in line behind a superior officer." He paused long enough to push away his still-conflicted memories of their brief and confusing relationship, and chose to ignore the snort of disbelief from his CMO. "She had quite the authoritarian streak in her."

"Hmm." McCoy tried to piece together what he remembered of her, and the tattered scraps of memories Kirk had been able to— _or had chosen to,_ he reminded himself—share with him, and decided discretion was the better part of valor for now.

"Yes, that's what her personality profile, and my recollection of her, would suggest," he said, "although I do remember that she was flagged as having a strong tendency toward pragmatism."

That comment elicited a deep frown from Kirk, but then he flipped his hand in a gesture of apparent unconcern. "Well, I don't suppose we'll learn much more about that until, or if, we actually run into her. But what can we expect with Solorio, Bones?"

He was pleased by the news of her location, eager to finally move toward resolution, and was surprised at the suddenly gloomy expression on his friend's face.

"Assuming she's still alive? What are the odds?" Distracted from his musings about Noel, the doctor stood and then paced across the small space, arms crossed and a glower on his face all too familiar to Kirk.

"Solorio had the same survival training we all had," Kirk reminded him. "And a lot more recently than us, too. She has supplies, and she's smart and resourceful; you said so yourself."

"Maybe she has a chance, if she's still thinking and behaving rationally, Jim. She swiped the right kind of meds, but only about a week's worth. If we assume her symptoms persisted—who knows, this far removed, how decompensated she may be? She may not know who we are. Hell, she may not know who _she_ is." He paused and looked into the distance, frowning.

"Bones," Kirk waited for the doctor to meet his gaze. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you seem a little more...well, invested than usual in this situation."

McCoy blinked twice and looked away, annoyed with himself. He focused on the little red statue behind Jim's desk—no, it was an _urn_ , not a statue, as Jim had corrected him more than once—but whatever, it creeped him out and served well as a distraction from his discomfiture. He allowed himself to wonder for a moment if the captain had ever thought of a name for it, then looked back at Kirk. The captain was sitting, patient yet expectant, and McCoy sighed to himself, and did his best to keep his tone neutral.

"You remember when we had that run-in with the creature on Argus X?"

The captain's shoulders tightened and his expression became unreadable. McCoy harbored no regrets about the decisions he and Spock had made and the things said in that situation, but it was something about which he, Spock, and Kirk had never spoken of again, all three of them preferring to put that painful exchange in Kirk's quarters behind them.

"Not about the competency issue, Jim," he said, to allay the tension. "More around Garrovick, and, you know how you saw a lot of yourself in him, and he reminded you of certain things? And how that changed the way you interacted with him?"

Kirk sucked in his breath and blew it out slowly. "Yes. I remember." He waited for McCoy to continue.

But McCoy wasn't interested in spelling it out, had no intentions of laying bare his soul for the second time in the last four days, not even—or maybe especially—with Kirk. It would take a lot more bourbon and a good part of Scotty's secret stash for that to happen.

So he watched Kirk working his way through it, perplexity giving way to realization, then his eyebrows going up. "I think I understand. Are you—"

"It took me a while to see it," he cut in, "but I'm trying to be more objective about this, Jim."

He pinched his nose and closed his eyes. Kirk opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor raised a hand to forestall the interruption and continued. "To your question about what to expect: best case scenario, if we find her we're looking at possible malnutrition and dehydration, depending on how well she's rationed her supplies and where she landed." He rested his hands on the back of his chair and tapped his fingers restlessly against the edge of it. "And we have to consider the very real possibility that she may not want to be found. And how to resolve that."

Kirk weighed the possibilities while unsettled by the vague impression that he had just been maneuvered in a deftly professional manner, then in the interest of interpersonal relations adopted the businesslike tone of his friend.

"Well. You're the expert, so I defer to your best judgment, Bones. You have about a day and a half to prepare," he said. "We'll approach this as a rescue mission. It'll be you, me, and Spock. Come up with a plan."

McCoy knew a dismissal when he heard it, but he placed his palms against Jim's desk and leaned to look him in the eye.

"The plan, sir, if she's alive, is to get her out," he said forcefully. "Get her stabilized, diagnosed, and into treatment before Intelligence lands their hands on her. I can arrange for her to be seen by the head of psychiatry at Starfleet Medical. She's the best in the field. Find her a good lawyer and document the hell out of this at every step, and maybe she won't just disappear into an Intelligence facility."

Kirk replaced the cap on the bottle and slid it cross the tabletop, disquieted by the doctor's intensity. "What's happening in those places, Bones? The processing centers I keep hearing about?" he asked softly. He had noticed, increasingly, that there were no official statements from the government about this system, no written policies, not even a designated head of operations. What they did have were terse announcements of people being detained, who then vanished into the system without public hearings or sentencing, fate unknown. He almost hoped for equivocation from his CMO but received nothing less than the blunt honesty he had come to expect.

McCoy rubbed his forehead and grimaced. "You don't want to know, Jim. Hell, it's all rumor and innuendo at this point, but there's more of it every day." He paused and his tone took on a note of pessimism Kirk rarely heard from him.

"There's a feeling that Starfleet and the Federation have turned a blind eye," the doctor continued. "Maybe, eventually, we'll have reports and articles that document all of this, written out in dry, clinical prose so as not to upset anyone's delicate sensibilities, but if even a fraction of what I'm hearing is true, I'm horrified at Intelligence and my fellow medical practitioners. Hippocrates would be rolling in his grave."

Kirk knew his friend was given to bouts of hyperbole, but there was none of the ranting and bluster he'd come to associate with that state here. McCoy was deadly serious, and Kirk was momentarily at a loss for words.

"I guess people want to feel safe, Bones," he said tentatively. "And authoritarianism, structure through fear and rules, provides a short-term illusion of safety. That's a reason, not an excuse," he amended at McCoy's reproachful glare.

The doctor sighed. "I hear you, Jim. But at what cost?"

Kirk wasn't sure how to respond to that, or if there even was a response.

"Bones," he said finally, his mind drawn back, as any well-trained historian would be, to the primary sources. "I want to see that journal. And her paintings."

* * *

After he delivered Solorio's creations to Kirk, McCoy returned to his quarters, stifling a yawn as the door slid closed behind him, the lingering effects of nightmare-fueled sleep deprivation propelling him to his bunk. Then the flashing light on his comm unit caught the edge of his vision and he groaned.

"What now?"

He flicked at the display. It was text with an attachment.

 _SFvirtualmail/orig SFHQ/Personal/Encrypt: Y/Priority: HIGH/SFComm protocol: Y/Vid: N/Receipt: Y/CONFIDENTIAL DO NOT FORWARD_

 _FROM: Seifert, Anna, Commodore, Starfleet Medical_

 _TO: McCoy, Leonard, CMO, USS Enterprise_

 _SUBJECT: Records_

 _Leonard,_

 _I couldn't find much, but here's what they were willing to turn over from the archives. There is more, but she would need to request it herself. Good luck._

 _Anna_

 _P.S. Get some sleep._

He smiled faintly. Not very damn likely now.

* * *

U.S.S. _Enterprise_

Briefing Room

Stardate 6025

1605 hours

"Nice of you to join us, Doctor."

Kirk gave his CMO a look that hovered somewhere between irritated and concerned as he entered with a preoccupied expression lining his face: McCoy had many flaws, but tardiness was not generally one of them. He decided this was not the optimal time to bring up, as he had planned, a question about McCoy's seventy-five minute-long vid link to HQ in the middle of the night that Uhura had flagged in this morning's comms report.

"Sorry," McCoy muttered. "Got lost in some medical records." He settled in across from Kirk and suppressed a yawn, then stirred his coffee half-heartedly.

"ETA Resliv system approximately sixteen hours, Captain," his science officer spoke up from the end of the table.

"Fill us in on that part of space, Spock." Kirk turned his attention to the holographic projection hovering above the small table, displaying a 3D rendering of a miniaturized planetary system, currently frozen in place.

The Vulcan rose gracefully and clasped his hands behind his back, assuming the cool, dry air of a dispassionate lecturer, but Kirk recognized the familiar gleam in his eye that betrayed the excitement of a scientist in his element.

"The Resliv system lies along the Tholian buffer zone. It is composed of a red dwarf type star, orbited by three planets and one dwarf planet," he began. "The U.S.S. _Matthew Henson_ conducted a single fly-by survey of the system eighteen Standard years ago, and, finding no sentient life forms, little flora or fauna of interest, nor any unusual geologic or atmospheric qualities, placed it on the star maps and noted is as unremarkable." There was the slightest hesitation in the Vulcan's voice, enough to pique Kirk's curiosity.

" _Nothing_ remarkable, Mister Spock?" the captain inquired, and was gratified when his first officer raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms with an affronted air.

"Sir, I merely convey the conclusions of the survey team at the time. Upon review of their full records, it is clear to me that there was, at some point in the recent past, civilization on the third planet from the sun." He waved his hand over the input panel set into the tabletop and the display came alive, elliptical orbits swinging around the star in the universal dance of gravity. "Unfortunately, the survey team chose not to complete a full on-site assessment. They did, however, collect sufficient data to allow for certain conclusions to be drawn about this planet."

"Such as?" Kirk studied the projection: the small, dusky star; then an innermost, rocky planet with no atmosphere or significant magnetic field; next up was a somewhat larger body with a pastel atmosphere that was strikingly beautiful, but whose gaseous components would never allow the development of carbon-based life; and far out in a lengthy irregular orbit was the outermost minor planet, almost completely covered in inhospitable ice. In between, lying upon an orbit that was, for this system, within the ideal habitable zone, lay the third planet, the one in question: breathable atmosphere, liquid water, gravity within the range of most planets with humanoid life. The planet had won the galactic jackpot, nestled safely within the life-nurturing Goldilocks zone.

"At the insistence of the sole archeologist aboard the _Henson_ , its captain permitted a limited cataloging of what appeared to be several abandoned cities and outlying villages on this planet. Carbon-dating indicated that the newest of the structures were less than one hundred Standard years old and were therefore deemed of little archaeological interest to the Federation."

"So you think our missing lieutenant might be there?" Kirk gestured at the planet in question.

"It does seem most likely, Captain. If she is in this system as suggested, that is."

"Chekov says our source is reliable." Kirk folded his hands together in a gesture that was familiar to both of them: the projection of calm and composure in the face of a challenge.

The Vulcan nodded in acquiescence and swept his hand across the visual. A close-up aerial scan of the planet appeared.

"Is that an image from the survey team, Spock?" McCoy spoke up.

Spock inclined his head. "Indeed, Doctor."

"Well, if it _was_ inhabited, then clearly there was some sort of radiation event. An explosion or spill maybe, that's showing up here." He indicated a landmass near the equator. "Must have precipitated a relocation, or evacuation." The doctor sipped at his coffee and ignored the nonplussed look Kirk shot him.

"Or extinction, Doctor," Spock replied, and sat again at the table. "Although that radiation event is not the only contributing factor to the lack of life on this planet. As you've also no doubt noted from the atmospheric analysis—" he indicated a graphic that was displayed next to the visual—"this planet has experienced increased levels of carbon dioxide and nitrous oxide. The scant records from the _Henson_ lead me to speculate that Resliv III was for most of its existence a body with polar ice caps and somewhat warmer continental areas that supported extensive habitation. However, beginning several centuries ago, atmospheric warming began to occur and the resultant polar melting led to flooding and reduced oxygen levels, a die-off of its microscopic aquatic organisms, and consequent acidification of its oceanic bodies."

"Contributing to a breakdown of the food chain," McCoy added. "Predictable. We've seen this many times, Jim. We came awfully close to doing it on Earth a few centuries ago."

Spock acknowledged this with a sober nod. "Indeed. We know from myriad observations of damaged planetary ecosystems that these changes are typically artificially induced and are often the initial harbinger of an unfortunate cascade of ecological events. In this case, the planet was already heavily dependent upon its bodies of water for food sources due to a lack of arable land. I hypothesize that eventually, these changes resulted in mass extinctions of fauna and the development of conditions inhospitable to most humanoid lifeforms. One hopes that the native population was sufficiently advanced to remove itself to safety."

"But there are no records of a diaspora in this area, no indications of a mass exodus and resettling, perhaps to colonize in another nearby system?" Kirk asked, perturbed by the possibility that an entire civilization could simply disappear in recent history.

Spock shook his head. "None, Captain. It is unusual, but it's possible that inhabitants relocated gradually, over a period of decades or even centuries as various locations became uninhabitable, slowly enough that the dispersion would be historically unremarkable. Some may have chosen to remain, moving around to ever-shrinking areas of viability, and simply lived out their lives there. I would estimate small pockets of livable zones, mostly near the centers of the larger land masses, could have sustained life until as recently as twenty Standard years ago."

"Could she survive there now, and for how long? Chances it still falls within Class M parameters?" McCoy asked in the dry, clinical way that Kirk knew often belied an emotion the doctor was trying to hold close.

"That depends in no small measure on where she is located, Doctor. In terms of the radiation, the farther away she is from the exclusion zone, the less likely she is to experience exposure. Other environmental variables are more difficult to predict, although her supplies should serve her well and I would expect the atmosphere to remain within acceptable limits for humanoid life."

They sat in silence for a moment, each sifting through their respective thoughts: circumventing Intelligence and Command long enough to pull this off; locating Solorio and navigating a potentially hostile environment; and preparing for all eventualities, including recovery if rescue failed. McCoy looked up suddenly, and Kirk raised an eyebrow at him.

"None of this answers why the hell she's there to begin with. Why here? Why now?"

Kirk shrugged, hands turned up. "That's the great mystery in all of this, isn't it, Bones?"

McCoy thought back to what he'd read in her journal, recorded the day she had accused him of prying and he had pushed her—no, let her walk away, he corrected himself: _I feel something pulling_ _at me, something massive, sucking me in like a planet gone too close to a black hole._ His eyes flickered up and met Kirk's gaze, then he cleared this throat and brought his focus back to the present.

"What do we know about the source of Chekov's intel, Jim?"

Kirk's face became still and he paused to compose his response. "Starfleet Intelligence obtained this information through augmented interview of an accused smuggler."

McCoy's eyes widened and he slammed his coffee down, causing it to splatter across the table top. "Torture?"

"Doctor," Kirk said sharply, but McCoy ignored him.

"My gods! Haven't we learned that torture doesn't work, Jim? It's wrong, it's unethical and immoral and illegal to inflict it on enemy combatants, but it's _unconscionable_ to use torture on civilians. Because that's what we're talking about here, right? I'm assuming they found the pilot, and Noel somehow got this information from him or her, and not by bribing them with a case of Romulan ale or a waterfall tour on the Midnight planet. Is this what we've come to? Is this who we are now?" he demanded, his expression livid.

Kirk did not flinch in the face of his CMO's fury, but his hands tightened around the stylus he held. "It was illegal until recently. And unfortunately it _does_ work, occasionally, or at least often enough to maintain support of it. It's all we have right now, Doctor," he said, quieting his voice. "And it's done already."

Spock waited out the moment, allowing the anger and horror in the air that battered against his mental shields to dissipate before he spoke up. "Shall we continue, gentlemen?"

McCoy stared at his crumpled coffee cup and fought to keep the defeat from his voice. "Go ahead, Spock," he mumbled.

The Vulcan flicked a finger at the visual and a Starfleet maintenance report replaced the aerial planetary graphic. "Recently a Starfleet maintenance crew was dispatched to the area to repair damaged monitoring buoys stationed along the Tholian buffer zone. It was noted that the star has an unusually strong magnetic field. Readings from the newly-repaired monitoring buoys also indicate that the star recently entered a phase of increased solar flares and coronal mass ejections, which will complicate our transport to the planet. And as Doctor McCoy noted, there is evidence of a radioactive event, likely a nuclear core melt accident on the northernmost tip of the largest equatorial continent. Although I would extrapolate that the immediate exposure danger has passed by now, depending on Lieutenant Solorio's exact location, long-term exposure would be dangerous."

"How recently?"

The Vulcan's eyebrow went up as he flipped the visual display off and placed his hands atop his tablet. "I beg your pardon, Doctor?"

"How recent were the increased solar flares and CMEs?" McCoy asked, fingers pressed against the table surface.

"I would estimate that they began approximately five Standard months ago, based on the timing of the damage to the buoys."

Spock waited serenely for the doctor to respond, but Kirk knew the look on McCoy's face: the speculative frown that meant his friend was circling around a theory, examining it from all sides for holes he could poke into it.

"What is it, Bones?" he asked, impatience creeping into his voice.

"Just a hunch," the doctor hedged, and pressed his lips together as he stilled himself, annoyed by thoughts that coalesced too slowly.

"What is the Lieutenant's esper rating, Doctor?" Spock asked suddenly, and McCoy shot a surprised and knowing look at him.

"You read her journals, too, Spock?" At the Vulcan's nod, McCoy continued. "Well, then you may have a touch of human intuition in you after all," he said with a grim smile as Spock's eyes narrowed in reproach.

Kirk turned to his first officer, then his CMO as McCoy tapped at his tablet and flicked his hand several times across the screen. He looked up, eyebrow quirked.

"Our testing is still less reliable for non-Humans, so take this with a grain of salt, but her latest rating was sixty-seven. Aperception quotient and Duke-Heidelberg quotient are both better than average."

Kirk sat back, arms crossed, and glanced at Spock's impassive expression. McCoy rubbed a hand across his jaw and opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind.

"Well, that's worth noting," Kirk finally commented.

McCoy grunted in agreement. "I remember seeing that in her records when she onboarded, but I should have pointed it out earlier." He pressed his lips together and he looked down at his tablet.

Kirk gave him a half-smile he would never see. "You're only human, Bones."

"About the timing of the flares, Leonard. You were wondering," Spock said quietly, "if the evidence of them, however faint, would have reached the _Enterprise's_ location approximately three months ago."

McCoy looked up at him, stubbornly inscrutable for now, and Spock nodded slowly.

"The answer is yes."


	12. Chapter 12

_Captain's log, Stardate 6026.5 We are in orbit around Resliv III. Mister Spock, Doctor McCoy, and I are preparing to beam down to the planet surface to investigate a possible distress signal. Spock is conducting a sensor scan to locate potential life signs._

* * *

The log entry was vague enough to cover him for now, at least until someone at Headquarters thought to match up incoming encrypted communications with the timing of their course change. Kirk sat in the center chair, trying not to fidget as Chekov and Spock huddled over the science station, speaking occasionally in tones too quiet for him to make out. The rest of the crew thought they were here, right on the edge of Tholian space, in response to a not-unusual distress signal from a long-neglected border planet.

He could tell from Sulu's posture that the helmsman had slipped into a state of suspended readiness, and sensed Uhura behind him, attempting to counteract her boredom with busywork, fiddling with the quantum transistor board she had dug out from under her console earlier in the shift. He drummed his fingers on his armrest, about to leap up and start prowling around the bridge to stave off his own restlessness, when the doors to the bridge swished open and he heard the familiar footfalls of McCoy behind him and then the weight of the doctor's hands settling against the back of his chair. He forced the tension from his shoulders and gave his CMO a half-smile over his shoulder.

"So that's it?" came the gravelly inquiry.

"That's it," Kirk confirmed. He could feel the doctor bouncing impatiently on his heels and waited for the outburst he knew was building behind him.

"We've been here, what, three hours already? What's the hold-up?"

"Our sensors are detecting more life on this planet now than was identified during the survey on record, Doctor," Spock said, looking up from his sensor outputs. "And it is proving unexpectedly difficult to isolate the readings for which we are searching."

 _Or she is no longer alive and there's nothing to find._ The qualifier hung in the air between the four of them who knew; unspoken, but weighing heavily nonetheless.

"We're not planning on getting too much closer, are we? Somehow I don't think the Tholians would take kindly to us coming over to say 'howdy.'"

"No, no closer than we have to, Bones."

He saw Uhura glance up from the corner of his eye and heard McCoy's retreat, probably leaning up against the rail as was his custom when he sensed hovering over Kirk's shoulder would serve only to increase tensions on the bridge. He heard murmured conversation between the doctor and Uhura, and a quiet chuckle from his comms officer, and remembered his otherworldly encounter with the lieutenant the last time they were this close to Tholian space, and her fury afterwards upon learning that Scotty had been sent back up to the Bridge while she—

Kirk anticipated the straightening of his first officer's shoulders before the Vulcan made any indication of speaking, and he wondered, not for the first time, how his tightly-controlled friend could so easily shift the emotions and atmosphere of his surroundings. He swiveled in his chair to face the science station.

"What is it, Spock?"

The science officer replied without looking up from his sensors.

"Captain, we have detected a humanoid life sign on the planet. Ensign Chekov," he ordered as the navigator scurried back to his station, "put coordinates on visual."

"Aye, sir."

The viewscreen zoomed in on a landmass well away from the equator, larger than all but one of the terrestrial areas that dotted the planet. Close up, there was evidence of previous habitation: a central cluster of densely-built, towering structures, now in a state of severe decay; an older plaza-type area set off adjacent to the taller structures, and all surrounded by loosely-grouped, circular areas of smaller buildings that, based on the patterns of pathways intertwining them, suggested communities of dwellings.

"Where, specifically, Ensign?"

The view swung westward, past a dense forest, meandering streams, and then a gradual clearing that morphed into a backbone of foothills that gradually descended into the edge of a deep canyon. There the sensors reached their limits, and blurred pixelations became the computer's best interpretations of what it could not fully resolve.

"Spock?"

McCoy's query was terse, and across the bridge crew members turned away from their stations, some more than others, to hear and observe the first officer's response, their finely-honed sixth sense picking up the undercurrent of urgency that now permeated the space.

The Vulcan straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, his expression unreadable.

"Captain," he said, "I believe we have ascertained coordinates that will enable us to beam down to the planet with a good deal of confidence. There is approximately four hours of remaining daylight at that location."

Kirk felt the unspoken hesitation in Spock's tone. "How's the weather?"

"There is a solar storm approaching, as well as significant atmospheric instability. We have a window of approximately sixty-five minutes during which use of the transporter will fall within safety parameters, but local meteorological conditions may significantly impair our visibility and ability to navigate."

The captain sighed to himself. _Of course. There's always something._ "Any other readings of interest, Spock?"

"No other life signs detected, Captain, either on the planet or approaching." Kirk nodded once and turned to glance at McCoy, who gave him only a grim look in return.

"Well, let's go see what we can see, gentlemen."

* * *

When the whine of the transporter faded, they were met with absolute silence.

He had asked Kyle to find a place a short distance from the location Spock had identified, to give them time to get their bearings. Spock pulled out his tricorder and bent his head over it, slowly turning as he took readings, while Kirk stood, listening and watchful. He had seen many atmospheres in his travels, more than he could count, some remarkable, others not. This planet met the second criteria; he suspected if the skies were clear, the vermilion sun would create a stunning sunset, but for now slate gray clouds loomed closely overhead, dispersing the sun's rays and casting a sickly glow over their surroundings. The light had a flat quality to it, rendering the terrain shadowless.

McCoy shivered in the muggy, chill air, glad that he had insisted on field jackets. He turned, saw to his left a clearing backed by leafless brush and boulders against a gentle rise; another turn revealed the earth sloping down toward a lake, placid and dark. It was shrouded in a blanket of fog that did not quite obscure a forest of barren trees standing like sentinels in the water, some still upright, others tilting listlessly against the glassy surface. He detected the faintest musk of peaty decay on a sudden shift in the breeze.

'Well, _that's_ not creepy," McCoy said, his light tone failing to conceal his uneasiness.

"The phenomenon is colloquially known as a ghost forest, in this case likely caused by artificial interference in the riparian ecosystem," Spock replied.

"They built a dam where they shouldn't have?"

"Yes, I believe that is what I said, Doctor."

McCoy rolled his eyes then bit back a retort as Kirk pursed his lips, patience already dwindling at their bickering. "Life signs, Spock?"

The Vulcan shifted the pack of supplies he was carrying to his other shoulder. "Picking up readings that way, Captain." He pitched his voice lower as he nodded toward the brush, reminding Kirk that their voices and movements would carry easily in this hushed environment. "Near the foothills that lay just beyond that area of vegetation." He paused, an almost imperceptible wheeze in his voice that did not escape McCoy's attention.

"I can give you something to help you breathe, Spock. The cold and humidity here will catch up to you if you're not careful."

"I am quite well, Doctor. Thank you for your concern, but I believe my superior physiology will more than compensate for any environmental disadvantages."

McCoy muttered something under his breath and Kirk held up a hand.

"Let's go, then. We're losing daylight, and we have bad weather on the way."

Kirk led them across the clearing, their footsteps muffled by the sparse ground cover, then they slowed upon reaching a dense thicket of low, scraggly bushes as the terrain took on a gradual slope. Thorny branches reached out and caught on their trousers and field jackets and McCoy swore under his breath as one scraped across the back of his hand, raising an itchy, angry welt.

The undergrowth began to thin, and Kirk halted and crouched just inside the outer edge of vegetation. What he had taken to be shadows along the stretch of foothills from afar became a series of caves outlined against the rocky formations. She stood outside the entrance to one of them, eyes closed in concentration, oblivious to their presence.

Kirk gestured silently at Spock and they moved forward, carefully picking their way through the last line of brush, coming within ten meters of her before her eyes flew open and she froze, staring at them wide-eyed, before turning and crashing through the brush, her figure a blur as she soon disappeared behind a clump of tangled scrub downhill.

" _Go_."

In one smooth motion Spock tossed the load of supplies he was carrying in the direction of the cave entrance and followed her trail, Kirk and McCoy falling in behind. They didn't cover much ground before being thwarted by geography; as Kirk's internal map warned him, they were headed further away from the lake and towards a much more precarious area: the caves were tucked up against the foothills but also uncomfortably close to a deep ravine formed by a once-mighty river. Now, its ancient and deep etchings through the rock were traced by a slow, gentle stream that sent up a barely audible murmur as they neared.

She stumbled as she reached the precipice, arms thrown back to slow her momentum, then twisted to face them and backed up, barely a meter from the cliff edge. Kirk stopped in his tracks and reached out his hands to hold Spock and McCoy back. She glanced behind her and then turned a hostile glare on them, breathing heavily.

"Lieutenant," he called out, then paused to suck in a deep breath, wincing at the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. "Lieutenant, please step away. We'd like to talk with you."

He was shocked when she began laughing in between gasps of air, and shot a worried look back at McCoy, who gave him only a shake of his head.

" _Lieutenant?_ " she said, and caught her breath. Her voice was hoarse and uneven, and he supposed she hadn't much occasion to use it recently. She pushed her hair out of her face as a gentle breeze arose and then shifted its direction against them. "I wouldn't think so, not after all this time, _Captain._ I won't go," she continued, her voice shaky. "I won't go back with you. I haven't found what's looking for me."

"Looking for you?" Kirk repeated, more to himself than to her, and thought back to the _thing_ , the creature that had haunted her dreams.

Her eyes jumped from him to the others, a slight frown creasing the space between her eyebrows. She gripped a narrow cloak that was arranged around her neck. Beyond her, the canyon gaped, the opposite cliff wall rising in the distance. Kirk considered the odds of pulling out his communicator, ordering a beam-up, and getting her safely aboard before she had a chance to jump; then abandoned the thought.

"Bones?" he said under his breath, without taking his eyes from her.

McCoy took a cautious step toward her, and she shuffled backward and teetered, the precipice just beyond. He sucked in his breath as suddenly his ears were ringing and the edges of everything around him became brighter. " _No_ —" he thought he shouted, but it was just a whispered scream in his head.

Then she found her footing and planted both feet firmly and he froze in place, blood thrumming through his head, frantically trying to dredge up something, _anything_ he could say to forge a connection with her, because he could see in her eyes that there was nothing more than one wrong word standing between her and an irreversible decision.

To his annoyance, nothing immediately useful came to mind, so he resorted to the second-best trick he had learned to employ in these sorts of circumstances: buy some time and keep her talking.

"I need to tell you something," he said, but the wind suddenly picked up, carrying his words away along with a dusting of topsoil and a few scattered leaves, so he drew a deep breath and repeated himself. With that, he thought there was a shift in her expression from resolute to uncertain, which he took as improvement, and he held his hands out in the universal gesture of _I mean no harm_ and took a step forward.

"It's…well, it's kind of between you and me," he said, shooting a quick look over his shoulder at Kirk and Spock. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and risked another step closer. He could see now that her time here had carved hollows in her cheeks and hardened her jaw, but he was relieved to detect none of the glassy-eyed paranoia or feverish mania he had feared he would find.

"Tara—"

At that, she crossed her arms and gave him a glower that clearly said he had wrongly assumed he still had first-name rights.

"Solorio," he amended, and his mind's eye cut to an image, her name on a Starfleet standard-issue death certificate: _Cause of death: suicide; manner of death: gravity_ , and he bit back an irrational and adrenaline-fueled snort of black humor.

"I owe you an apology." He arranged his face into what he hoped was the least threatening expression possible.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What are you talking about?"

He would have sworn that the thing around her shoulders tightened its grip as he responded. "That day we talked. Remember? Right before you left?" A faraway look came across her features, and she glanced away for a moment. When she looked back, the wind caught a lock of her hair, obscuring half of her face. He quelled the urge to reach out and push it behind her ear.

"I should have listened," he said, "but I didn't, and I'm sorry."

She studied him, wrapping her arms around herself again as the wind cooled. He thought there was a note of sorrow, or regret, in her voice as she responded. "This would have happened anyway," she said. "That's not why I'm here, you must know that."

He didn't know, and he wasn't sure what to make of that, but it was an opening, and he was grateful for it.

"Then why _are_ you here?" he asked, pitching his voice lower as the wind changed directions, whistling up now from the ravine below, bringing with it the scent of earth and decay and the promise of rain. He glanced up at the sky and saw gray and purple clouds roiling along the horizon.

"I told you, I'm still looking. For…"

He marveled at how much could be said there, in that space between words, and forced down his impatient instinct to fill her silence.

"Something." Her gaze slid to beyond him, to the distance, and her eyes lost their focus.

 _What?_ His inner voice demanded again. _The thing in your head? What you saw in your dreams?_ But he didn't dare go there yet, not standing here on the edge of earth that held her so precariously.

"Do you think you'll find it, Tara?" he asked, gently.

She brought her eyes back to his, and he pushed down his dismay at what was there now: the panic of something trapped without hope.

"I don't know anymore. Maybe not. Maybe it's time to give up," she whispered, and he thought that if she survived this, if she could walk away from this siren song, there would be no shortage of mucking through the wretchedness that had taken up residence in her psyche by now.

"Well," he said, thinking as he blinked dust out of his eyes. Then he decided to take a chance: "Whatever it is," he drawled, "I don't imagine it's waiting for you at the bottom of that canyon, my dear," and was pleased when her eyes flashed at him, lips pursed together.

" _That's_ better _,"_ he mumbled under his breath, but she was already speaking over him, her voice shaking with anger.

"You may think you're here to take me back, but I won't go. I _can't_ go. So there are two possible outcomes."

 _Actually, three,_ he thought, _or four_ , if you counted both the last-resort plan of the hypo of melorazine in his jacket pocket—not a feasible option in this perilous position—and the outcome of Noel's impending approach, still unbeknownst to her. He tried to picture what might be going on in her head, and could only envision something enormous, overwhelming, frangible and that old verse _All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put_ —

"Sulu's been taking care of your plants," he said, and if she was jarred by the _non sequitur_ she hid it magnificently. She blinked and then pinned her gaze on him, her eyes jittery but clear, and he held his breath.

"I'm not crazy," she said finally, her jaw trembling with the effort to keep her voice under control, and it had the tenor of a question rather than a statement. She clamped her arms against her side.

"I know," he replied, not sure if he was lying or not. He watched and waited her out, counting, _seven, eight, nine_ , and finally her shoulders relaxed and he felt a wave of relief flood through him. A mist, so fine it barely brushed against his skin, cooled the wind and he shivered. Below, in the gorge, he could see the beginnings of a blanket of fog tucked in around the boulders and the stream.

"How long have I been here?" Her question was almost inaudible over the wind and the creaking of tree limbs against the impending storm.

"About two months."

Her lips moved silently, as if she were tallying up in her head, and then a frown that spoke more of confusion than contention creased her forehead. Something in his gut told him the worst was over, and that if he just held his hand out, she would step toward him, and she did.

But then the earth beneath her feet crumbled and her eyes widened. And as the wind began gusting in advance of the howling storm front, though Spock closed the distance between them in one step—more quickly than McCoy could even contemplate—the Vulcan stumbled when his foot landed on an exposed root, and he went down just as McCoy and Kirk reached her. She leaned towards them, in defiance of gravity, but the yawning ravine prevailed, and she landed against the dirt with a grunt, then slid downward on her stomach, hands scrabbling for anything to slow her descent. McCoy grabbed her left hand, and her other hand found the root Spock had tripped over. She looked over her shoulder, and then back up at him.

Fear of heights was not among McCoy's carefully curated collection of phobias—shuttles in turbulence, yes; transporters, _hell_ yes—but a single glance at the frank terror on her face told him she was not as fortunate.

"Don't look down, Tara," he growled through clenched teeth, as he fought to ignore the tearing sensation in his shoulder. "Look at me. And don't you _dare_ let go."

The root broke free from its moorings and she yelped as she dangled now over the emptiness by one arm. Her left palm was suddenly slick with sweat, and he tightened his grip, both hands now searching for purchase further up her arm as he swore under his breath. He heard Kirk behind him, yelling something at Spock about the supplies, but it all sounded very far away.

"Give me your other hand. _Now_ , damnit! Push your feet against the rock and reach up!"

Her gaze drifted to the cavern below again and he bit back the urge to curse at her. " _Tara_."

At her name, she twisted and settled her gaze upon his again and he felt his heart rate slow from galloping to merely frantic.

"This is the way back. Let me help."

She closed her eyes and placed her boots against the cliff to brace herself, then reached her hand up, and he released his right hand to grasp her fingers, but coated in dust and dirt they slid from his grip. As he felt the ground begin to give way underneath him, he inched forward and reached further, pushing away his dizziness at the glimpse of emptiness below and thought _maybe we'll add acrophobia to that list after all_ and clasped her forearm as tightly as he could. He pulled with all of his might, aware that Spock and Kirk were there now, too, and then with a great dragging _thump_ of relief _almost like the final push_ came the thought out of nowhere, she was atop the edge of the cavern, panting, flat on her back. He tackled her without meaning to, momentum tumbling him over twice and landing his knee on her hip. She winced and cried out and tried to roll away as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then she gave up and lay flat on her back, gasping for air. Kirk landed a precautionary hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him and shook her head in between wheezing breaths.

"I won't try to get away again, Captain. You just…you surprised me. Back there at the caves." She wouldn't meet his eye, and he decided to overlook her fiction.

McCoy was already running his scanner over her. He noted some fresh abrasions from the near-fall, and knew she would have some impressive bruising later, but detected no breaks or sprains. He nodded at Kirk. "She's okay to move." He stood, stretched, and rubbed his shoulder. He felt something slip and pop that made him wince.

"You okay, Bones?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"All right, up you go, then." Kirk motioned at Spock, and they both grasped one of her arms, and held her steady after she rose to her feet. She pulled one of her arms free then brushed at the dirt on her jacket and untangled a leaf from her hair.

In the near distance, a bolt of lightning crackled, and she startled. Seconds later, an ominous rumbling began building. Spock studied the sky and pulled out his tricorder, then gave a quick nod in Kirk's direction. "I estimate four minutes before rainfall and dangerous meteorological conditions reach our location, Captain." Kirk, still settling his breath, turned his attention to his wayward lieutenant, who was giving him a look of equal parts desperation and resolve.

"I'll be court-martialed if you take me back," she said in between breaths. "Desertion. And this thing," she gestured vaguely at her head, "will still be there."

He squinted at her in the fading sunlight, fighting against the heaviness that seemed determined to settle into his lungs, searching her face for the indications of a lost connection with reality that he had come to recognize over the years—nearly universal was the look of madness—and found none.

"Your disciplinary status is not entirely up to me," he said finally. _Doctor Noel's pronouncements notwithstanding_ , he thought to himself. "You have any—"

Then his communicator chirped and he sighed under his breath as he opened it. "Kirk here."

" _Captain, solar activity will require that we raise shields within three minutes,_ " came the familiar worried voice of his engineer, trapped up on the bridge away from his engines. " _Computer estimates it will be safe to activate the transporter system again in approximately ten hours. Shall we beam you up now_?"

"Intensity level on the planet, Scotty?"

" _You should be safe, sir, without precautions, but when this blows in, we won't have any means of contacting or transporting you_."

"Any company out there yet?"

" _No, sir._ "

"Acknowledged. Stand by."

He turned to his first officer. "Time, Mister Spock?"

"I estimate earliest arrival within twelve hours, sir."

Solorio, who had been rubbing the back of her neck, paused and looked at Kirk, head tilted. "What does that mean? I thought Scotty said ten."

He looked at her without expression. "Intelligence is after you, Lieutenant, and should arrive within twelve hours. We were trying to get to you first."

Her eyes widened. "What? Why?" She took a half step back and he started to reach for her but checked himself.

"Suffice to say you'll be a lot safer once we get you back on board."

"Will I? What will that really accomplish?" she demanded. "You think...you think taking me back will make this go away? How does that play out? I get drummed out for desertion, or I get locked up in the Federation funny farm indefinitely? Maybe both, for good measure?"

"You could be facing a far worse fate if you are apprehended by Intelligence, Lieutenant," Spock said.

"You have any other ideas?"

She chewed her lip, eyes unfocused on the distance, then levelled her gaze at Kirk. "Twelve hours, right? Can I have twelve hours? Please give me that, Captain. I understand I'm in no position to ask for anything, and I'll go back with you afterwards. I won't fight it, I promise."

He gave McCoy a long look, and an unreadable message was exchanged between them.

Kirk flipped his communicator open again. "Scotty, we need to wrap a few things up. We'll keep an eye on the levels down here and will be in touch when conditions permit. Kirk out." He closed the unit with a _snap._

Spock stepped toward Kirk. "Captain, the cave system we observed earlier may provide adequate shelter from the conditions overnight."

Kirk surveyed their surroundings, suddenly disoriented as the horizon and the tree line faded in the darkening skies.

"The caves?" Solorio asked, looking from Kirk to the others. "I'll take us there. This way," she indicated with a jerk of her head.


	13. Chapter 13

We reached the cave formation just as enormous droplets began falling from the looming sky, kicking up puffs of dirt as they hit the ground. Spock scooped up the bags of supplies he had dropped earlier and we edged around the remnants of tinder and kindling that marked the small camp fire I had built just outside the entrance of the cave. Spock had to duck his head to enter, but once inside, the cave felt spacious. I knew it stretched far beyond what we could see in the dwindling daylight.

"This is where you've been camped out?" Kirk's voice was amplified in the space from where he lingered at the entrance.

"Yes, sir." I moved into the darkness without hesitation towards where I knew my lantern sat, and at my touch its warm yellow glow dispelled the darkness into gloomy shadows, revealing a formation far more complex than the exterior appearance would suggest.

The cave had been carved out by long-forgotten inhabitants, walls buffed smooth as glass over time, and roughly divided into separate areas. Here where we stood, just inside, the space had been fashioned into what felt like a communal area, with ledges shaped into the rock and a large fire pit in the center. Beyond, lurking in the shadows, I knew there were deeper spaces ringed in by groupings of stalactites and columns. The air was an amalgamation of the dank mustiness from further back in the cavern and the pungent ozone of the approaching storm.

"It's collapsed. The chimney part of it," I said, pointing upward, and they craned their heads to view the remains of a crumbling ventilation shaft. "That's why I've been lighting a fire outside. Well, when it's not raining," I amended, watching in dismay as the downpour washed away the last of the ashes. "I've been here for a while…maybe a few days, or a week…" I was suddenly unsure.

"Fascinating," Spock commented as he placed the bags of supplies on the ground. "This appears to be quite ancient." He retrieved another lantern from their stores and switched it on, then held it close to the walls, where paintings and etchings depicted a free-for-all mural of swirls, vectors, and circles of all sizes and colors. I knew that at night, in the darkness after I turned off my lantern and the fire settled into dying embers, the paint would glow and the shapes would seem to come alive in a fantastic, hypnotic light show.

"Spock," Kirk said, "there may be time to examine and record later, but we have things to do and I'm not interested in traipsing around out there in the middle of a downpour. Can you estimate how long until this blows over?"

The hint of a crease appeared between the Vulcan's eyebrows as he bent over his tricorder, adjusting dials and turning slowly to direct the instrument in all directions. "At least an hour, Captain," he announced as he lifted its strap from over his shoulder and leaned it up against a nearby rock.

"All right then, Doctor McCoy, why don't you take care of the lieutenant, and Spock and I will work on sorting out supplies and getting some heat going. Then we need to make some decisions."

McCoy, edging cautiously into the secondary spaces of the cavern, spied my blanket tucked away behind my knapsack and a small stack of ration bars, and moved toward it. I watched him pause to make a swift assessment, sniffing at the staleness of the air here, then he turned to me.

"Love what you've done with the place," he said dryly, waving me over. "All right, come on, let's have a look at you."

With no small amount of trepidation I crossed in front of him, stepping beyond the entry space and into the alcove where I had spent many restless nights _,_ then lowered myself to the cool hard earth. I leaned up against the cavern wall as he knelt opposite me, his back to the entrance, wincing and cursing what I recognized as an old Earth oath under his breath when a stray pebble jabbed into his knee.

As he pulled out his tricorder and turned a practiced eye on me, I imagined what he was seeing: I could feel that my hair now hung limply just below my jawline, probably uneven in places (early in my time here, after having it caught in tree branches for the third time in one day I had grabbed one of my knives and hacked it off in frustration); I could see that my clothing hung loosely on my frame; and I knew hunger that I could no longer feel and exhaustion that I could not hide if I tried was etched into me. Even without a mirror I could feel it, in the hollows of my cheeks, the tautness under my chin, the papery skin around my eyes. And along with the long, jagged abrasions down both of my forearms courtesy of this afternoon's adventures on the cliffside, his instruments and inspection would pick up various older contusions, friction blisters on my feet, and some scabbed-over puncture wounds on my hands. I waited for an ill-tempered comment that didn't materialize.

Instead, he just placed his tricorder on the ground, still whirring and warbling, to free up his hands, then opened his medkit and began to lay out his supplies: a small spray bottle, a collection of simulskin bandages, a hypospray, and a small bottle of green liquid. I gave a sidelong glance at the latter and he held it up. "We'll get to that in a minute, but let's get you cleaned up for now. Left arm first," he said, gesturing for me to push my sleeve out of the way. I hesitated as the fabric caught on a stray fragment of loose skin that was beginning to pull away, and he reached over to push it further up.

"There's radiation here, you know," he began as he picked up the spray bottle and held it close to my arm, and the anesthetic burned away most of the throbbing pain. "More than you would normally expect, anyway, and two kinds, actually, neither of them terribly harmful for humanoids in the short-term, but that—" he nodded at the green bottle, then pulled a lantern near and peered closely at my arm "—will start counteracting the effects. Just a precaution."

His tricorder beeped and he frowned and tapped at it before continuing. "There was a nuclear accident here years ago, but you've been far enough away from the exclusion zone that you're probably safe. The bigger worry is radiation from the local star. Spock says that about five months ago, this planet's sun entered a period of intense geomagnetic activity, causing regular, massive solar superstorms and CMEs. Unfortunately, due to the damage that's been done to the atmosphere here by prior inhabitants, a lot of that UV radiation is penetrating through to the surface. Seems like there's a lot of that going around lately."

He paused, apparently noticing that I was not paying close attention to his lecture, but I saw from the edge of my vision that his expression was more assessing than irritated; and, having observed this tactic many times before in sickbay, I suspected the primary aim of his droning on was to distract me from whatever unpleasant things he was doing to me. So I leaned back, eyes drooping with sudden weariness, slightly queasy. But at his continued silence I forced them open again and saw him staring at me with intense scrutiny.

"What?" I demanded.

His face rearranged itself into something unreadable and he shook his head. "Just thinking we need to get some fluids in you. Other arm."

I held my right arm out and he slid the fabric up and made a sound somewhere between chiding and sympathetic at the oozing abrasions that were beginning to stick to my tunic sleeve.

"What's going to happen to me?"

He turned aside to rummage again through his supplies for as he responded.

"Hard to say at this point. I suppose a lot depends on what happens here in the next few hours, but if I had to guess I would say you'll have some diagnostic testing to determine what's been going on, and depending on those results there may be a disciplinary hearing in your future, at the very least."

"What does Intelligence want with me?"

He set his medkit on the ground with more force than I expected.

"I'll let the captain address that," he replied tersely.

A heavy uneasiness gnawed around the edges of my stomach as he bent over and worked, and then I winced even with the anesthetic as he set about picking debris out of the raw flesh that covered the length of my forearm, before reaching for a long strip of simulskin. It shimmered and seemed to twist away from his fingers, dangling in the air, but he caught it and pressed it deftly against the length of my arm, and the residual pain, like nettles on fire, faded.

"You'll be as good as new before you know it. Be careful with that, though. It doesn't have quite the same elasticity as you're used to."

I nodded, then felt apprehension creep up my spine as he suddenly grasped my right hand and splayed my fingers out against his palm.

"What happened here?" he asked.

It seemed perfectly obvious to me what he was seeing, and undoubtedly to him, too.

"Well, sir, I did that," I admitted, as matter-of-fact as possible. "I think it happens when I sleep. Sometimes I think I've woken up and I find—" I bit my lip, reminding myself that trusting him could land me in the brig; or worse, the safe room in sickbay on my way to an indefinite, all-expenses-paid stay in one of Starfleet's finest long-term psychiatric rehabilitation facilities.

He waited a beat for me to continue, and gave me an appraising look. "I see." He turned my hand this way and that in the light, probably counting up the old scars and comparing them to the fresh scabs. My canine teeth, even with the shaping done to them as a child, when fully emerged had turned out to be a little longer and sharper than those of most humans, and had done most of this damage, leaving behind deep punctures surrounded by bruises and scrapes.

"Well, then. It'll heal up with time," he said finally, and released my hand.

"Yes, sir," I agreed, pulling back into myself. My eyes shifted away from him, up to the ceiling of the cave, and I allowed part of myself to escape from here, to disappear temporarily from this dreadful day as I imagined what conversations and laughter and angst and love it had absorbed over the millennia. The other, more cautious half of my brain was still taking in sounds from the front of the cavern: the rumble of approaching thunder, Kirk and Spock speaking in low tones, and the occasional rustle of a supply bag or the warble of the Vulcan's tricorder.

After how long I could not say, my thoughts coalesced and I slid my gaze back over and found the doctor sitting there patiently, his attention fixed on me with the frown-not-frown I saw on him sometimes. The question came to me, out of nowhere, of how much of his notorious prickliness and cynicism was a facade, an emotional deflector shield of sorts. I certainly felt none of the irritation radiating from him that I would expect from such an ill-tempered countenance.

"I've told you to stop calling me _sir,_ " he muttered, then leaned back and slouched against the wall across from me, pulled one leg up, and rested his forearms there on his knee. He let a moment pass, allowing the background chatter from Kirk and Spock to overlay the faintly howling wind before continuing, and I felt an inaudible sigh from him before he continued.

"You've been doing that a long time, you know," he said at length, and gestured at my hand. I shrugged at him, and he hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision.

"I know what happened to you, Tara…some of it, anyway." He straightened and gave me a sober look. "There's more in your medical records than you may know. Your _earliest_ records, I mean," he clarified. "I was able to locate and requisition them in your absence. We can go through them later, if you'd like."

If he was expecting me to take _that_ bait, he'd have a long wait coming. I had no interest in digging through the compost heap of my past, leastwise here in this absurd setting with an unknown entity taking up residence in my head and the possibility of criminal charges looming over me.

He nodded as if he had read my mind. "I only bring it up because it may be pertinent to our current…" he seemed to search for the right word and settled on, "circumstances." I thought fleetingly that he appeared as uncomfortable as I felt, and that his words were now pressed with both reluctance and urgency as he continued.

"You did that to your hands," he motioned again at the bite marks, "when you were a child, in the hospital on Novlia. That...those kinds of behaviors are not uncommon in young children who are unexpectedly separated from their parents." He paused, but I sat still as stone, studying the ceiling. "The clinical notes say that it happened when you were upset or agitated, especially when you were woken by a nightmare or questioned about your memories of your past. And," he pressed, "you were insistent that you had an imaginary friend. Not unusual in children, but the hospital staff thought this was different somehow. Do you remember that, Tara?"

I wasn't sure where he was going with this, but all at once it certainly wasn't important to me in the least in this very second, because I _did_ know the feeling that his words had sent churning through the pit of my stomach, now turning my gut into a zero-G space and making the tips of my fingers tingle. My heart was thudding in my chest, my lungs constricted like I was wearing a too-tight suit of phaser armor, and his voice had faded, tinny and muffled and spinning away, the dizziness pulling me down into a field of dancing stars in front of me. I felt myself toppling over into it, into the darkness, with relief and terror, and—

" _Lieutenant_ —" he reached out clasped his hands tightly around my shoulders and righted me against the cold rock, and I tried without success to clamp down on the cry that escaped me. I winced at the loudness of his voice as my surroundings came back into tunnel-vision focus all at once and I struggled to absorb the resounding stillness that ensued. Across the cavern, out of my sight, I registered that the captain and Spock had abruptly ceased speaking, and there was a listening silence that made my eardrums thrum. Then their low conversation resumed, and I could feel my face again, hot and flushed, the bursting feeling in my center threatening to consume me.

"Easy now," McCoy soothed, his voice almost inaudible. "It's all right, you're all right," and as much as an irrationally-irritated part of me fought against it, my ears latched onto it. "Just breathe."

 _Easy for you to say_ , my distracted self thought, but I couldn't have squeezed the words out if I'd wanted to. I felt from a distance one of his hands slip down to my wrist and settle there and it was all I could do to focus on my frantic internal scolding _don't collapse on your superior officer don't you dare whatever you do_. But an eternity later he was still saying something in the background, something reasonable and reassuring, and after a long uneasy wait for the worst to pass I drew a final deep, shaky breath and leaned back against the rock.

"I remember now," I gasped, and sat, paralyzed, in a silence that made my ears throb, focusing anywhere but him as the memories came back, tentative snippets at first, then a flood of snapshots of a time I had worked painstakingly to forget. After longer than I would have liked, the shock of new recollections faded into the background enough for me to feel the ground beneath my feet and the warmth of the lantern enveloping me. My eyes finally settled on a spot on the ground near my boots. He removed his hands from me, cautiously, then startled when Emmalin moved in to curl around my shoulders instead.

"Is that thing _alive_?" he exclaimed, and I bit back a laugh, equal parts grief and amusement and relief.

"Not exactly," I managed, horrified at how weak my voice sounded. I cleared my throat and took from him the paper napkin he plucked from a meal kit and held out to me, and used it to scrub the tears from my face.

"It's— _she_ —is what you might call quasi-sentient. Sentient-responsive, maybe. I got her from a friend. Anyway, she keeps me warm and she keeps me company."

I saw his eyebrow quirk up, then watched him digest my words as he stared at her in fascination, and saw more questions bubble up across his face. But then he pushed his curiosity aside and turned his piercing stare back to me, and I felt his expectant waiting.

"You remember?" he prompted, and there was a residue of remembrance, a fleeting, longing connection to my previous life onboard the _Enterprise_. I realized with some surprise that that this was just as much a part of who he was as the treating and bandaging and dosing; that his incessant probing and digging were only the flip side of the annoying scanner he was always waving at people.

"You saw my journal," I said. _Well, you did leave it right there, in plain sight, Tara, for them to find_ , my inner voice reminded me.

He allowed my redirection to pass with only the merest shake of his head, then stood halfway and turned to stow some of his supplies before he answered.

"Yes. And your paintings, too," he said, anticipating my next question. He leaned back on his heels to study me, then waited for me to respond, and when I didn't, he continued.

"I thought it sounded like textbook sleep paralysis, frankly, with a hefty dose of insomnia and anxiety thrown in for good measure." Gravel crunched under his foot as he shifted and gave me a shrewd look. "You know, sleep deprivation can cause serious problems if it goes on too long. Disorientation, hallucinations, impaired cognition, dissociation, paranoia," he ticked off his fingers. "Even psychosis. Used deliberately in other settings, it's considered a form of torture under Federation articles."

"I told you, I'm not crazy," I protested, but he held up his hand to stop me.

"I didn't say you were. I thought maybe your out-of-character behavior—disappearing on unapproved leave, specifically—could have been the result of a medical condition. When the divide between asleep and awake starts to crumble, strange things can happen, things you don't necessarily have control over."

He fell silent and let that settle in the space between us. I turned his words over in my head for a moment, feeling them out, recognizing an unspoken offer of amnesty and wondering if perhaps that was all that was going on, maybe I had just been imagining or hallucinating all of this; if what I felt, the aching, the pulling in my head, the relentless voice, it was just a side effect of persistent lack of sleep. Maybe I just needed the right treatment, or a leave of absence, or—I shook my head, a voice in the back of my head suggesting that he was just giving me an easy out.

"No? What's your diagnosis, then?"

I looked up at him sharply, but there was no derision or impatience as I imagined I would find in his expression. He shrugged and held his hands out in a gesture of appeal.

"You know yourself, Tara. And you've had a lot of time here to think about this. What's going on?"

I was silent, suddenly wary of whatever olive branches he might offer in an attempt to elicit my cooperation, even as that same small voice in the back of my head urgently whispered _paranoia_. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips against the lids, pushing back against the heavy wall of exhaustion that I could not much longer deny.

"Tell me this, then," his voice came, oh-so-reasonable, through the kaleidoscope of colors that shimmered in my vision, "the thing that you've been seeing in your dreams, what you wrote about and what you painted—is there any resemblance to your imaginary friend from your time in the hospital?"

There was a wailing in the distance, in my mind, from something I felt was very young and frightened, and my throat tightened, knowing I could not reach it now. I dropped my head to hide the tears that threatened. I had spent the last few months—no, if I was honest, most of my life—terrified of, yet drawn inexorably to, something I did not want to face, but the idea that it had been locked up inside me the whole time was, I feared, enough to splinter me into pieces.

When the burning tightness in my throat subsided, I managed to meet his gaze, but glanced away at the kindness there. "I suppose so," I mumbled as I swiped the now-sodden napkin across my face again.

"You think it's here?"

"No, I _know_ it's here, and…" I leaned toward him, a new sense of urgency infusing my voice, "I know how this sounds, I really do, but I'm connected to it, to _here,_ somehow." I struggled for words as I thought back to that merry little painting on the wall of the nursery. "It comes to me as soon as I fall asleep, and it tries to…to draw me to it. Please," I implored, "you have to believe me."

Without taking his eyes off of me he reached to pick up the hypo he had pulled out earlier, paused, turning it over in his hands as he thought, then clicked a vial into place, checked it and double-checked it. "Hold still. It's just a multivitamin." He pressed it against my arm and I flinched at the burn.

"I'm _not_ crazy," I repeated, and he studied me with an expression now as implacable as mine was imploring. "Run every test you want. Drug me up, hypnotize me, put me through a verifier scan, a psych eval, hell, a mind-sifter if you want. I don't know how else I can convince you."

"There will be no mind-sifters on _my_ watch, Lieutenant," he said tartly.

I sighed and swiped my face against my sleeve. "You know, from what I've learned of Earth history, if we were five hundred years in the past, you would be dragging me into an exorcism or burning me at the stake," I said, and tucked my hair behind my ears, wishing for the thousandth time that I had brought along something to tie it back.

He laughed under his breath. "Well, then, it's a good thing I left my holy water back on the ship, isn't it, young lady? We'll figure this out, Tara, no medieval torture or exorcisms required, I promise." Empty packaging and used supplies disappeared as he busied himself cleaning up and I decided to take advantage of his distraction.

"Um." I cleared my throat. "Thank you." He paused and peered over his shoulder at me, eyebrows up. "For saving my life."

His lips tightened as he wiped his hands down with a cleaning solution. "Well, we didn't come all the way out here just to lose you again."

"If I had gone down, you would have died, too. But it's not just that—" I shook my head, my memories of our exchange on the ledge still too fraught to sort through just yet.

He snapped his medkit closed and turned the full intensity of his gaze on me and I froze at the expression there, burdened with something cryptic and well-traveled. "But we didn't go down. And I didn't let go this time." He drew a deep breath and blinked, shook his head, then his face took on a speculative cast. "But I have to ask you this: what was your plan for getting away from this planet? In the end, I mean, if we hadn't…" he trailed off.

"I didn't have one," I said automatically, without thinking. "That wasn't the point." I saw immediately from the way he tilted his head that it wasn't what he expected to hear, but it was too late to take it back, and anyway, it was the truth.

"Did the antracil help?" The question was abrupt, intentionally so, I suspected, as I shook my head.

"No, it's never helped, really. It was, what's the phrase, long odds?"

He levelled a curious, thoughtful look at me and then he sighed and his attention shifted, unfocused, to the murky darkness above. I sensed a sort of calculus occuring before he squinted back down at me and flashed a brief smile.

"All right, then. You'll have to fill me in some day on how you pulled that heist off. Nurse Chapel was stumped." He handed me the small container of green liquid. "Bottoms up, now. For the radiation, remember? I'll get you some water. Then you'll need to eat something, or you'll have the mother of all headaches before you know it." The thunder boomed again, and I jumped.

I sniffed the concoction and grimaced but drank it in one gulp. He stood, disappeared and reappeared in short order, then handed me a bottle of water from their supplies.

"Just sit tight." He moved away to join Kirk and Spock, standing just inside the cave entrance, where they were watching the storm blow in.

I leaned forward, straining to catch a glimpse or fragment of conversation—from here I could just see the Vulcan's hands clasped behind his back and hear the sound of footsteps and quiet voices from near the cave entrance. I closed my eyes and concentrated, catching only a few fleeting words from the low murmur of their conversation, but nothing that illuminated my current situation.

Then the footfalls approached, bringing the soft _scrunch_ of boots against the dusty cave floor, and when I glanced up, Kirk was in front of me, hands clasped behind his back, his expression indecipherable.

"Mister Spock has a proposal. But first, I have some questions for you."


	14. Chapter 14

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and squeaked out a reply. "Yes, sir." I pushed myself up to stand, my muscles trembling, and tried not to wince at the stiffness in my limbs and the ache in my hip where McCoy's knee had made contact earlier. Spock approached, lantern in hand, and the two lights together were bright enough to chase most of the shadows into the deeper recesses of the cavern. I could hear McCoy rifling through their supplies and I wondered as rubbed my arms if they had brought along extra jackets. Spock touched his lantern to turn on the heat function.

"Do you have anything you'd like to say first?" Kirk's blunt manner was not at all as I remembered him, but then I realized that this was not the charming, genial captain of the officer's mess, but rather the captain of an errant lieutenant whom he had pursued, for reasons I could not yet fathom, out into the remotest parts of non-Federation space. As I pondered that and took a swallow of water, I settled upon what was still my most urgent question for the moment.

"How did you find me?"

His eyebrows went up. "How do you think, Lieutenant?" There was only mild surprise in his tone.

"Well, only one person knew where I was: Brodie. Why did he tell?" I tamped down a small, irrational stab of betrayal.

He leaned up against the cave wall with his arms crossed and shook his head. "Brodie didn't volunteer the information. He disclosed it under duress," he said quietly.

"Under… _what?_ He was threatened?" I said, incredulous. "Why? Over a lowly missing lieutenant?"

McCoy emerged from the shadows and held out a meal pack from the supplies they had brought. I frowned at it, but he gave me a reproving look and I took it.

"Not just threatened," Kirk said, watching as I picked at the packaging. "Tortured."

I dropped the package as the feeling left my fingers and I stared at him, horrified. "I don't understand," I whispered. I could feel the blood drain from my face.

"We don't have the full story yet, either." He pushed away from the wall and stepped closer. "So I'd like you to tell me exactly what you've been doing here, and maybe we can figure it out." His voice was friendly, but there was a new, steely undertone.

I looked at him warily, then drew a deep breath and collected my thoughts for a moment.

"Sir," I began carefully, "Please know that I'm aware how bizarre this sounds." The captain gestured at me to continue. "I was drawn here. I've been trying to locate something…a being, an entity that I've been seeing in my dreams. Sometimes when I'm awake, too."

"Yes, we surmised as much from the records you left behind." There was impatience rather than the incredulity I expected in his tone, and I felt a small wave of relief at the thought that he might believe me.

"It needs something, sir, I'm not quite sure what, but it needs something intensely, and it thinks I can…can…" I faltered, aware anew, as I spoke the words, of how it must sound.

"Fulfill that need?" Spock suggested, and I nodded, relieved.

"Yes, sir. I'm connected to it, to this place, somehow. I feel it deeply and without a doubt."

"Do you sense any intent?" This question came from Spock, and the subjectivity of what he was asking me for surprised me.

"You mean, like, motivation? Or what it means to do with me when it...catches me?" I didn't like the way my insides crawled at his nod, and then wondered if my choice of words was an answer in itself. "I'm not sure. It's mostly a feeling of urgency." I closed my eyes, trying to intuit past the terror and dread of my memories to dredge up any deeper impressions. "Anger, maybe. Pain. A sense of…" I sighed. "A sense of something long held at bay."

I opened my eyes and found the captain staring at me with a ferocity that pinned me frozen in place.

"How did you end up on Novlia Prime, Lieutenant?" he asked.

I blinked at the sudden change in topic. "Sir? I don't recall. I was just a young child."

He leaned forward. "Yes, a young child who one day appeared in the capital city, alone, with no memories and no belongings. You didn't even know your name."

I realized that he knew more than I had suspected, and squashed down once again the insidious whisper of paranoia. "Yes, but, it's just that—it's—my memories are hazy. I remember only that it was like waking from a dream, as if my life had just begun, or turned on, right then. And suddenly there were lots of tall buildings and noises, strange things and people, and someone stopped and spoke to me. I couldn't understand what she was saying and I don't even remember what she looked like. But she took me to a place, a big white place, a hospital I suppose, and I stayed there for a while. Then I went to another place, a house where there were a lot of children. It was loud and crowded and we were hungry…" I trailed off, transported back to that time in my past.

"And from there you were adopted?" Spock asked, pulling me back to the present.

"Yes." I reached for the water, suddenly feeling drained and wishing for my safe, soft bunk back on the ship with more intensity than I had allowed since arriving in this place. Then I wondered how comfortable I would be in the brig, and whether they would let me keep—

"Emmalin?" McCoy guessed, and I looked over at him, momentarily confused as my cloak stirred at the sound of her name. "You told me that she adopted you, remember?" he prompted. "And we're just a hop, skip, and a jump from Novlia now, you know?"

"Three point seven light years," Spock clarified.

I blinked. "Um, I've never been very good at stellar cartography, sir."

"That's odd, given how much time you spent in that area of the ship just before you disappeared," Kirk said sharply. "I assume that you learned enough at the Academy to understand that the two planets are next door neighbors, Lieutenant." He dropped to the cave floor and crouched there in front of me as I tried not to shrink away. "Do you think it's a mere coincidence, that you would have ended up _there_ —" he pointed vaguely toward the sky "as a child under mysterious circumstances, and now, twenty something years later, you're back _here_ in the area again, under equally unfathomable conditions?"

I saw McCoy reach his hand out a split-second before Kirk finished speaking, but it didn't check the rage that bubbled up inside of me without warning. " _I don't know, damnit!_ " I exploded and leaned forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing, three months of frustration and horror and exhaustion tumbling past us and reverberating in the sudden silence inside and out. "Do you think I _wanted_ to come out here, dragged along like a fish on the end of a line? I've lost everything!" I heard my words echo against the cave walls, saw Kirk put up a finger, as if from a distance, but I couldn't stop the rush of words. "I thought I was going to die out here in this godforsaken place for no good reason, and you think I'm being obtuse, or it's some kind of plot that I've been sucked into I, I don't know, to start up some kind of—"

"Lieutenant," Kirk broke in. His voice was calm, but the muscle along his jaw tightened and his words were terse. "That's enough."

The anger and frustration left me all at once, like a sail without wind, and I suddenly felt very small. "Sir." I tried to meet his eyes, my cheeks flaming, and knew I had pushed too far. He levelled a narrow stare at me until I looked away. The wind began whistling again, tentative at first, then building to a howl that made me clench my hands until they trembled.

'You need to understand that someone who does not have your best interests in mind will be here in—" he glanced at Spock.

"Ten point—"

"About ten hours. She will ask you these same questions, but a lot less nicely. Despite any lack of evidence that I've been presented with, there's an excellent chance that you will be placed under arrest and remanded to an Intelligence facility as a suspected terrorist."

I heard exasperation in his tone, and a holding back at the same time, and saw the quick look he exchanged with McCoy. The doctor squinted at me, to hide the worry in his expression, I thought, as he spoke up.

"We don't know what may happen then—you could be held indefinitely, you could be treated as Brodie was, you could just quietly go away. We're trying to keep that from happening, if we can prove that your disappearance under suspicious circumstances had a reasonable explanation. Can you help us help you?"

I finally managed to meet Kirk's eyes without flinching, and said, with as much urgency as I could dredge up, "The only explanation I can offer, sir, is the one I've already given you. Something is here, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with what Intelligence is looking for." I looked down at my knees, despair welling up inside me. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know how else to explain this."

* * *

"We've seen stranger things than this. Things none of us can explain. If there's any possibility—" the captain said under his breath. He reached for his communicator and flipped it open, received only static in response, and swore. Spock looked up and nodded, understanding what his captain left unsaid.

Kirk stood and moved toward the entrance, leaned out far enough to get splashed with a sudden gust of icy rain, and quickly retreated, raking his fingers through his now-soaked hair. He paced across the span of the cave a few times, then stopped abruptly by Spock, who was watching him with a patient and somewhat distracted air. McCoy knew better than to interrupt either Kirk's prowling or Spock's thinking, so he picked up his tricorder, fingers scrolling through readouts on the display screen. The instrument gave a small beep and a side note of data, results of a background analysis it had been working on, popped up and he held his breath as he scanned through it. He looked at Spock and the Vulcan emerged from his thoughts, sensing the shift in the space between them.

"I believe her, Jim." It came out of McCoy's mouth without thinking, but he did not try to recall it. "Spock, my tricorder picked up a few fragments of the local flora and fauna on our way over here. Have you collected any samples for analysis?"

"What little there is, yes, Doctor." He tilted his head, then the Vulcan's eyes widened slightly. "Kindly link your tricorder with mine."

"What is it?" Kirk demanded, but he was ignored for the moment as his two officers compared readouts, hunched together over their instruments, and speaking so quickly in undertones that he had trouble following their dialogue. He heard _shared_ _DNA, symbiotic,_ and _projection_ ; a quick glance at Solorio, and the bleak exhaustion he found there told him she was fading rapidly.

He stood, hands on hips. "Doctor. Mister Spock." Their dialogue ceased and they looked at each other, then up at him, and he was amused to see similar expressions on their faces for once, albeit one far more subdued than the other. "Please explain."

Spock's eyebrow went up as he too levered himself off of the cave floor. He dusted his trousers, clasped his hands behind his back and arranged his features in a way that Kirk knew so well, the one that signaled the satisfying resolution of a long-pondered question.

"Captain," he began, "our analysis of the lieutenant's DNA, in comparison with what I have gathered in our time here, indicates a ninety-nine point seven three percent likelihood of shared origins."

Kirk blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but McCoy jumped in, not bothering to conceal the small smile that crinkled his eyes.

"What he's trying to say, Captain," he gave a quick nod in Solorio's direction, "is that she's from here. You were right, Lieutenant. This _is_ your planet."

Kirk considered that for a moment. "But why is this happening now? And what is it that's drawn you here, exactly?" he wondered.

"Maybe it's _not_ just now, Captain," Solorio replied, and there was a shift in her demeanor now, a visible relief in her features. "Maybe it's been going on for a while, for a long time perhaps. Or could the recent solar activity have acted as … I don't know, like a signal booster, maybe?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave her a skeptical look. "And that signal ended up in your head, and only your head, Solorio?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, sir."

Spock sent a questioning glance toward Kirk. "Captain, if I may proceed with what we discussed earlier?"

At Kirk's nod, the Vulcan stepped forward. "Lieutenant, I respectfully request to perform a mind meld with you upon the next occurrence of this phenomenon."

"Spock, I'm not sure—" McCoy began, but Kirk motioned at him.

"Let him continue, Doctor."

"There are few or no long-term effects. You may experience discomfort initially, but it could inform our strategy going forward."

She turned to face him and stood there, trembling, as he looked down upon her, his manner placid and foreign to her.

"No," she said flatly. "You make it sound like it's just a simple thing, just a matter of popping in and out, but I think one extra alien in my head is more than enough. _Sir._ "

Spock regarded her without expression. "You mistake my dispassion for disinterest, Lieutenant. And a meld is a mutually-agreed upon act. I would not proceed without your consent."

McCoy's memory transported him unwillingly back to the sickbay—not _his_ sickbay, but the one in that other terrifying universe, where Spock had backed him up against the wall, paralyzed him with his words and voice, and forced his way into the doctor's mind—and he shivered with a sudden chill.

Spock swiveled to face him and gave him a long, hooded look, as if he could intercept his thoughts even now, then shifted his gaze to Kirk, eyebrow raised. The captain nodded in her direction.

"Lieutenant, we are running out of time, and we are running out of options. We took an enormous gamble coming out here to find you, and it's time for you to step up. The alternative, I assure you, will not be pleasant."

She bit her lip, swallowed hard against the sudden burning in her throat and nodded.

The Vulcan inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Very well. Please sit."

With a grimace she leaned back against the cave wall and used her elbows to lower herself to the ground and wrapped her arms around herself.

Spock reached for one of the lanterns and flocked it off, and his shadow arced against the far wall, looming large in the murky light. He knelt, settling into the dirt floor, and faced her in a meditative pose the doctor had seen before, projecting a calm that did little to mask the aura of intense energy flowing from him. The storm's strength matched it, lightning crackling and thunder rumbling together continuously now.

"Can you summon it?"

"I am not a telepath, Mister Spock." She bit back nervous laughter at his frown. "I mean, I don't think so. I've never tried to call it intentionally." Her voice was nearly inaudible now above the wind.

"Very well. I will assist you in attempting to do so." He laced his fingers together and placed his hands stop his knees. "Breathe deeply and close your eyes." She obeyed, eyes fluttering beneath the lids. "Empty your mind and listen only to my voice. Thoughts merely pass through your awareness. You notice them, then release them."

Above the drone of Spock's voice, McCoy's tricorder was still whirring and trilling from where he stood next to Kirk. "I'm picking up very low frequency sound waves now, Jim," he murmured. "Infrasound. That could be how—"

"Silence," Spock said suddenly. "And do not interfere, Doctor," he continued without looking up, his voice tinged with an undercurrent of urgency, and before McCoy could wonder what the Vulcan sensed was coming, he heard a strangled gasp from Solorio, and saw a look of empty horror possess her face, mouth open in a wordless scream, her body suddenly rigid, and he could have sworn he heard a squeal of fear from that thing around her shoulders. Despite Spock's warning, he had to check himself to keep from reaching for her, but Spock was already there anyway, hand hovering over her temple, speaking to her in a low, hypnotic tone as he spread his fingers and placed them carefully against her, one at a time.

"Do not resist, Lieutenant. Open your mind to mine. Permit me to see what you see."

Her breath quickened, and his matched it for the briefest interlude, before they both slowed. His unblinking stare seemed to hold her immobile as he shifted and placed his other hand against her face. She flinched and he said something inaudible, then a grimace passed across his face.

" _There_ ," he intoned, his voice strained. Her breath became uneven and a keening sound escaped from her throat, and then—

* * *

 _It called up the memory of swimming in the ocean, as he had once done in the warm gentle currents along the Gulf of Ha'adraes. The push and pull of the amethyst waters in that place had resonated with his thoughts, soothing like the natural flow of a meditative state. But here in her mind, his mental moorings trembled and floundered as he waded unsteadily into her inner self, and he paused, arms out to steady himself and regain his footing as the waves of her thoughts/emotions/self lapped against him without any pattern. There was darkness here and a strange echoing sensation in the silence, a reverberation that unsteadied him, but he sensed no fear, no malice. He sent out a cautious sounding and felt her presence, uncertain and unseen and curious, observing from the darkness._

" _Lieutenant—"_

 _Then her essence, still obscured in shadow, materialized suddenly in front of him with the unexpected facility of one possessed of innate psychic abilities, and he was met with a brief flash of surprise and uncertainty from her._

" _This is how we meet, we who have this way of touching minds," he reassured, tamping down his own astonishment, and her thoughts, still without words, calmed and ordered with an agility that he intuited must speak of some prior training._

 _Her being gradually took form and solidified, still mostly shimmering just beyond his perception, and he was not surprised: the mental representation of herself that she knew to be authentic was far more alien than her real-world appearance. He knew the same was true for himself, and felt waves of confusion and relief from her as she took in his appearance._

" _You and I, we are both less and yet more human than others can see or acknowledge, Lieutenant. We are more kindred than one might assume."_

 _He sensed an accounting of his words and of his very presence, an ambivalence, then a decision. A tentative tendril of curiosity curled out from her and he reached to grasp it. It bloomed in his hand, lighting up the space between and them. All at once she was in his thoughts, and he could feel her words brush up against him as if she were whispering in his ear, words that he knew were in a tongue unknown to him yet-_

" _It's here. But not here." There was urgency, secrecy, shame, dread, a wall of it bearing down upon him now and he struggled to keep his balance against the onslaught. The tempest battered against his shields but he did not fight it, allowing it instead to spend itself, dissipating into the darkness. When the storm abated her breath was still ragged and labored._

" _Show me," he commanded._

 _She pushed an image at him and he understood._

" _I will follow."_

 _She took his hand and led him away, into the deeper recesses, their progress becoming slow and heavy as he sensed they were nearing something. She lagged as if reluctant, or fearful of the oppression that permeated and enveloped this space now. He found it difficult to breathe, to order his thoughts; he felt ensnared, pinned in place by something unfathomable and understood with a pang of empathy how she had become powerless against this thing._

 _They halted in front of what Spock sensed was a barrier of sorts, a permeable transition space between_ here-not-here _in her mind. She released his hand and reached her own out tentatively, trembling and hesitating._

" _It cannot hurt you, Tara."_

 _He felt her gather what remaining strength she could muster and with a shriek he felt more than heard she slammed her palm against it and unleashed all at once a blinding roar of light that spoke in not words but emotions, some familiar and some unfathomable, with a rush of pain and rage and hurt that sent him reeling. He saw her standing still, as if in a trance, and she seemed to be taking on a translucence, fading, like one of the old photographs hanging in his mother's sitting room in ShiKahr._

 _He grabbed her hand in desperation and dragged her back through the dark, unsure of direction, feeling as if pulled underwater and bereft of gravity, the shadows blurring past as he rushed her back to the surface, then gasped a breath and up up up out of her—_

* * *

She cried out as they emerged, a desperate howling that made Kirk twitch and raised the hair on McCoy's arms.

Then Spock bent toward her and said something sharp and at once his hands were hovering in the air again, and she slumped against the cave wall, eyes closed. He stood and turned away and bent his head over his steepled hands for a moment, struggling to steady his breath. McCoy reached a hand out to him but he shook his head once, in refusal.

"I am…fine, Doctor." He nodded toward her, pushing the words out through gasps. "The esper ratings were accurate. She is indeed a gifted telepath."

McCoy turned his attention to Solorio, bending to lift her chin, but glanced up as Spock addressed Kirk.

"Captain, I know where this being is. I must go to it. Now."

"I'm not sure that's wise, Spock," Kirk began.

"Spock, it's hailing out there," McCoy interrupted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"As you are so fond of pointing out, I do have a rather hard head, Doctor. I doubt that small pieces of frozen precipitation will inflict long-standing harm."

"No." Solorio's voice was raspy and her eyelids flickered and she squinted at them in turn, weariness etching new lines into her features. "I'm going with you," she managed as she struggled to her feet.

'Now, wait just a minute," McCoy said as he reached out a hand to steady her.

She turned to Kirk, and he took in her determination and urgency and weighed it against McCoy's half-hearted objections, and came to a decision.

"We're all going." He rubbed his forehead as if to ease a knotted-up muscle there. "As soon as it lets up a little, anyway. Spock, wrap up whatever readings you've been working on. Solorio, pack up your things. It's time to put an end to this."


	15. Chapter 15

**My apologies for the slow-down in posting updates: with the start of the school year, my writing and editing time has been sharply curtailed. I would rather focus on quality rather than speed, so I will put new chapters up, I promise, but sometimes real life just gets in the way!**

* * *

Spock stood at the edge of the cave, arms crossed and the slightest hint of a furrow along his brow. McCoy sauntered up beside him and leaned against the wall. Further in, Kirk's low murmur held a stern undercurrent and the doctor suspected that in addition to clean-up duty, the lieutenant had found herself on the receiving end of a discreet tongue-lashing over her earlier heated exchange with the captain. Having survived a few of those himself, he gave a sympathetic wince and turned his attention to the skies, a view that was now more dreary than threatening.

"Damn shame we didn't pack our umbrellas, hmm?"

Spock did not turn as he responded in a distracted tone. "Indeed, Doctor."

He glanced back to ensure they were still alone, and lowered his voice. "What'd you see?" he asked, knowing Spock would understand.

The Vulcan exchanged only the briefest, blandest of glances with the doctor before returning his attention to his tricorder. "It would be difficult to convey the particulars of what I sensed within the lieutenant's mind."

"Try me," he shot back.

Spock blinked at him with an air of long-suffering. "I would not expect you to understand, Doctor, lacking as you do even the most rudimentary psi abilities, but I believe we shall soon uncover the root of this situation and, it is my hope, begin to untangle that which has ensnared her."

"What do you mean, your _hope?_ Do you think this might be permanent?" he said, alarm pitching his tone higher than he intended, but before the Vulcan could reply, Kirk emerged from the shadows at a brisk pace. Solorio trailed behind, head down, the doctor's keen eye picking up her high color. She paused to grab her knapsack and sling it over her shoulder before stepping near to join them.

"How's it looking, gentlemen?" Kirk peered past the entrance. The hail had eased, replaced with a gentle pattering of rain, and a musty smell of damp and decay now rose from the ground. Clouds that had obscured the moon were breaking apart and the wind had settled into occasional fluttering gusts that rustled through the surrounding brush.

"Jim."

Kirk glanced at McCoy, but the doctor was not looking at him. Rather, his hand was lifted, two fingers pointed at an area of the sky just above the spindly treetops.

"That look familiar to you?"

Kirk studied the constellation McCoy was indicating, an collection of twinkling stars arranged in a pattern that, if one connected the dots, he thought might suggest a creature of some sort. After a moment it clicked. "That's—"

"Yes, that's how I knew I was in the right place, Captain," Solorio spoke up, her voice subdued. "My first night here, I looked up and there it was. That's what I was seeing in my dreams, and what I was looking for, all those nights I spent in the cartography lab."

Jim stared at her, unsure how to respond, and in the silence Spock cleared his throat.

"I recommend departure as soon as possible, Captain."

Kirk turned to him and nodded once, decisively. "How far away?"

"I do not know."

At that, Kirk's eyes widened briefly, but he did not comment on the Vulcan's admission. "Well, there's no way out but through, I suppose. Come on, then. Lead the way, Mister Spock."

Spock took three steps out into the clearing, boots nearly silent against the ashes and sodden leaves on the ground. The meager moonlight cast deep, angular shadows across his face. He stood for a moment, eyes closed, in a posture that suggested careful listening, then swiveled and moved purposefully toward the rise beyond the cave structure.

"And we're off," McCoy muttered, waiting for Kirk to follow the Vulcan, then falling in behind after a quick glance to ensure Solorio was alongside.

Spock maintained a brisk pace, pushing through sparse vegetation in a straight upward path rather than a switchback pattern that would have eased their ascent. Kirk matched his pace easily but after fifteen minutes or so McCoy felt his breath become labored, and he began to regret his recent slacking off in the gym, and spent several minutes berating himself before realizing that Solorio had also fallen behind. _At least she has an excuse_ , his inner voice noted, and he rolled his eyes at himself. He slowed until he matched her pace, and Kirk and Spock disappeared momentarily beyond a stack of boulders outlined in the meager light ahead.

"You okay?"

She nodded once, without looking at him, and paused for a step to catch her breath. "I'm fine. We can just add insubordination to my list of crimes and misdemeanors, I suppose."

He wasn't sure what he could say that wouldn't come out as trite, condescending, or dismissive. He tried out a few things in his head, and finally settled on, "I'm sorry this is happening."

She shrugged, her expression resolute. "No one is entitled to fairness, Doctor."

He was about to respond when the moon finally broke free of the clouds and its gentle glow brightened the night around them. Then the moonglow was joined by and momentarily overcome with rippling waves of gold and green overhead, spreading out silently with liquid grace, reaching out ghostly, fading tentacles across the starscape before shimmering into darkness.

When he looked away from the aurorae, Solorio had come to a stop again, her head tilted slightly and a faraway look in her eyes. She was mouthing something wordlessly and appeared not to sense his approach. The absent expression on her face tweaked a low level alarm in the back of his head, and he thought about reaching out to shake her, but then she drew in a sudden breath and her eyes cleared and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Did I...did I say that out loud?"

He sorted through a dozen possible questions to ask, but answered with a simple, 'No."

She drew a beep breath and rubbed the heels of her hands against her face. "I can still hear him," she said, her words muffled.

"Oh," he said, uselessly, then realization washed over him. "Spock, you mean?"

She nodded, and he felt a flash of recognition, a remembrance of how the echo of that connection had coiled itself around the base of his lizard brain for far longer than he cared to admit.

He shifted and looked up the trail, wondering how far away Kirk and Spock were by now. "Well, I'm told that's a temporary effect."

"He says they're coming ba—"

Kirk suddenly reappeared ahead and swung his lantern in their direction, causing McCoy and Solorio to throw their hands up before their eyes.

"Sorry," he said, and then turned again and held it high, illuminating the terrain ahead. "I thought we'd lost you two. Spock, does this look…I don't know, intentional?"

The Vulcan stepped back toward the group and surveyed the ground and their surroundings. "Like a pathway, Captain? Yes, my thoughts as well. It is overgrown and has been unused for quite some time, I would speculate, but there does seem to be a deliberate clearing of the way."

Solorio's head snapped up. She froze and McCoy's breath caught. "I hear it," she whispered. "Do you hear it, Mister Spock?" Her eyes were glassy, her pulse visible at her neck, and without warning she darted past, disappearing up the trail and around a bend before Spock could reach out to restrain her. Within seconds, the Vulcan followed, Kirk just behind.

McCoy's muscles protested and he puffed in the heavy air as he lagged, then as he crested the incline he stopped short at the sight that lay just up the trail.

"What the hell?" he breathed. He willed his legs to move again, and in a few steps he reached the others where they stood in the shadows, just short of a border, a sharp _here and there_ that could not be seen, but that marked the margin between the reality they had accepted as true since arriving in this place, and a world beyond that defied any explanation he could conjure.

There, close enough he could reach out his hand into it, was light, the pure, clean light of a young star so bright he had to blink against it. He squinted and looked away, eyes landing on a nearby tree where its boughs reached into that otherspace, seeming almost to lean into it. He tugged one of the branches close, a young and pliable twig that yielded easily to his grasp. A leaf near the end of it was of two planes: the half nearest to him with the mottled and brittle gray of disease and age he had seen here, the other half a supple, bright green. The demarcation on it struck him as unreal, cartoonish even. He opened his mouth to draw Spock's attention to it, but Kirk spoke first as he looked, eyes narrowed, past the shadow line.

"It looks almost like an eclipse. But it's alive there, the grass and the trees, and the sky is clear, the sun is out. And it's nighttime here. How could that be?" His words were hushed and uncertain. Spock shook his head slowly, tricorder whirring but forgotten at his side.

"No, Captain, nothing so simple as an eclipse." He tensed as if to move toward it, into the light, but Kirk reached out a hand.

"No, not yet." He turned to face Solorio, who was behind them, her face half obscured in the shadows. "What is this? What do you know?" he demanded.

She did not look at him, but kept her eyes focused on the world beyond, and McCoy was uneasy at the hunger he saw there.

"I do not know, Captain," she replied.

"Of course, ship's sensors did not detect this phenomena, Captain," Spock said, and reached for his tricorder. "They read only a collection of ancient ruins approximately one kilometer distant in this area."

"Any guesses as to what this is, then?"

"I would not hazard a guess, sir, since my tricorder is not providing any readings for interpretation, but I would hypothesize that we have encountered a boundary between dimensions."

"What kind of dimensions?" McCoy asked.

The Vulcan gave him a look that dredged up in McCoy's mind the many uncomfortable hours years ago he had spent holed up in a stuffy lab with his clinical physiology tutor. "Unfortunately, we do not have time for a course in remedial M-theory, Doctor, but in simple terms, I would propose we have encountered a transition between either a spatial or temporal dimension."

"Or both?" Solorio spoke up.

"Or perhaps both," he acknowledged.

"Spock, take a look at this." McCoy plucked the leaf he had been examining earlier and reached it out toward the science officer. Spock frowned as he turned it over slowly and then placed it near his tricorder.

"Fascinating," he murmured as the instrument beeped at him. "This leaf is undergoing active cellular regeneration."

It took McCoy only a second to grasp what Spock had said and left unsaid. "Then this effect, the shifting of dimensions, is also renewing life, and it's not static. It's spreading?"

"Indeed, Doctor."

"Would that harm us?" Kirk asked.

"Unknown, Captain. I propose a test. I request permission to cross the boundary."

Kirk stood silent, thinking, then looked across at Solorio, who had moved up to join them and now peered between their shoulders to look beyond. "It's still there, Lieutenant? In that place?"

She nodded once, decisively. "Yes, sir."

"I concur, Captain. Whatever it is, it inhabits the space beyond."

Kirk gestured toward the light. "Well, then—"

" _Wait_ —"

The captain looked at McCoy with no small degree of exasperation. "What is it, Doctor?"

McCoy knew that when Kirk addressed him as _doctor_ in that tone, it was like when you'd done something you oughtn't have and your mama called you by your full name. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down on Kirk from his ever-so-slight advantage.

"Captain, what if there's no _there_ there? I mean, we can see it, but how can we know that if Spock steps over that margin, he won't disappear? What if the gravity's too high? Or what if the atmosphere is unbreathable? Don't put me in the position of not being able to get him back if he gets squashed into two dimensions."

"Doctor, that is extremely un—"

Kirk gave a nearly inaudible sigh and cut Spock's protest off. "Point taken, Bones. Solorio."

"Sir." She snapped her attention back from gazing at the landscape beyond.

"Give me something from our supplies. Maybe a, I don't know, something expendable. An extra power pack."

She reached into her knapsack and rummaged around for a moment before producing a small, rectangular object. She handed it to Kirk, who tossed it across the barrier into the light. It landed in the grass without sound, but behaved otherwise as they would expect from familiar gravity. Its surface suffered no discoloration, and, more importantly for McCoy, it did not disappear. Spock was busily taking readings with his tricorder, and Kirk gave McCoy a questioning glance.

"Well, Bones?"

"That's not very goddamned scientific," he groused. "But I've said my piece."

He had a bad feeling about this, and having carefully honed his intuition over the years of seeking out, boldly going toward, and sometimes running away from various unknowns, he had learned to trust his gut. And his gut was very unhappy about the direction this particular away mission was going.

"Spock?"

"The doctor is correct in his assessment; however, I deem the risk to be acceptable."

"Go on, then."

The Vulcan placed the leaf carefully on the ground and stepped forward, holding his tricorder out in front of him. McCoy held his breath; he felt and heard a _pop_ in his ears, then the air shimmered as Spock crossed the boundary. Spock's feet flattened a path through the grass that sprang back up behind him, then he came to a stop just across the line between sunshine and shadow. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the warm golden light limning his features into high relief.

"Captain, it is most...agreeable here." He glanced down at his tricorder. "I detect no change in my cellular functions, and no harmful radiological or otherwise detrimental environmental effects. The atmosphere is similar in composition to what exists in your…" he searched for a word, "reality, though relatively lower in carbon dioxide."

"Any life signs?"

"Negative, Captain, other than what my tricorder interprets as insectoid, small mammalian, and avian lifeforms."

"Spock, why don't you try your communicator," McCoy suggested. "See if we can still reach the ship, I mean, before we all walk over there and risk vanishing from this dimension."

Spock's eyebrow quirked up. "A most logical recommendation, Doctor." The Vulcan flipped open his communicator and, instead of a familiar chirping of an open channel, he was met with silence.

"Well, there's your answer, Bones."

That certainly wasn't the answer he wanted, and Kirk seemed far too cavalier about the prospect of leaving behind their current dreary-but-firmly-planted-in-the-Alpha-quadrant dimension in exchange for something, or somewhere, or sometime, that the _Enterprise_ sensors were blissfully unaware of. They were all talking over each other and not following basic safety precautions, and dammit, even Spock was acting reckless here.

"Um, Jim."

"What _is_ it, Bones?" Kirk had one foot half off the ground, and gave his CMO a look the doctor knew too well.

He sighed. "Never mind." A thought popped into his head, and he grasped at it, pleased to have found the proverbial silver lining he occasionally—and with no small amount of hypocrisy—admonished his patients to search out. "So maybe Noel won't be able to find us, either, then."

"I wouldn't count on it. All right, let's go then." Kirk stepped across the boundary and strode into the light, oblivious to his crushing of McCoy's small hope. The doctor followed just behind after only a second's hesitation, feeling the same quick pressure against his ears as he had when Spock crossed over. He looked over his shoulder and gestured at Solorio to join them, and she touched her scarf briefly, then stepped into the light. She stumbled and he reached out to steady her, then took a tentative inventory of their environment.

His first thought was how welcome the warmth was, after that chilled and stormy place. The sun here, though small, was intense. As he bent to retrieve the power pack from where it had landed, he felt moisture begin to rise already under his collar _at least Vulcan is a_ dry _heat_ , his inner voice grumbled, and he shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, wincing at the catching in his joint there. He reached out to drape it over one of the tree branches that overhung the boundary, and Kirk started to say something, then pulled his jacket off and snagged it on a neighboring tree.

"One less thing to carry around. It's not likely to go anywhere. Spock, want to hand yours over?"

The Vulcan shook his head, intent on his tricorder readings. "I prefer to retain mine, Captain." He swiveled to point his tricorder at Solorio, then inclined his head toward McCoy. "Doctor, you may wish to review this data."

McCoy leaned in to study the screen. "Hmm. That's interesting. You seem to be caught up in the regeneration process, Solorio. Not surprising, I suppose."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"Just that your injuries are healing more rapidly than I'd expect. You may come out of this feeling like you got dunked in the fountain of youth."

A slightly horrified look came over her features. "It won't _literally_ un-age me, will it?"

"What, you don't want to relive your adolescence?" he asked. "No, it's more like damage done to your cells is being repaired that would otherwise take longer, or wouldn't occur at all."

She drew her hand across her face and neck as if probing an alien landscape, then shook her head. "Well, I suppose I can't complain about that."

"No, I think—"

"Lieutenant." Kirk interrupted. She startled and looked toward him, holding her hand up to shield her face from the sun.

"Sir?"

"Does it feel different over here?"

She seemed to understand his meaning, and her eyes unfocused and she stood in place, a listening cast to her stance. McCoy looked around as they waited for her to respond, taking in the surroundings now with the eyes of an explorer rather than a scientist, and was struck by the untouched, raw beauty of the place. Atop gently rolling hills and valleys, fields of grass in a shade of green brighter than any he had ever seen reached as far as he could see in three directions, undulating in a breeze so slight he could not feel it against his skin. The cloudless sky, a dazzling yellow overhead near the sun, gradually deepened to a hazy amber closer to the horizon. The silence was at once overpowering and peaceful, broken only by the occasional quiet rustle of leaves and grass.

To their right, the meadow sloped downward and terminated against a line of trees. There was a faintly musky tang in the air, suggesting a body of water nearby yet unseen, and he thought he could hear the faint roaring and the distant but steady rumbling of something powerful beneath him, just at the edge of his awareness. In the distance, tucked up against the treeline, he spied a structure, its shape vague but suggestive of a fortress or edifice.

"Captain—" he began, but Solorio beat him to it.

"Over there, sir," she said, pointing toward the same formation he had seen.

"The ancient ruins our sensors picked up, Spock?" Kirk said.

"Affirmative, Captain, although they do not, at least from this distance, appear so very ancient after all."

It was true, McCoy thought, as he raised his hand to shade his eyes and tried to make out features of the structure. Its details remained unresolved in the glare, but the sharp angles, a central tower rising above, and the overall symmetry were clear even at this distance, and spoke of well-maintained, if not recent, construction.

"Captain," Solorio said slowly, as if thinking out loud, "do you suppose those _are_ the ruins the sensors detected? But they just haven't been, well, ruined yet?"

Kirk crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. "As in, this shift in dimensions is more temporal than spatial after all? Spock?"

"Perhaps, Captain, but I lack sufficient information to draw a definitive conclusion at this time. I suspect our situation may be more complex than my original assessment indicated." His tone was now cautious, and a crease appeared between his eyes as he bent over his tricorder, then straightened to look toward the structure again. McCoy had been deciphering the Vulcan's stoic veneer long enough now to know what that frown meant.

"A hunch, Spock?" McCoy asked quietly. The Vulcan gave him a scandalized look.

"Really, Doctor?"

Solorio looked back and forth between the two of them, a puzzled expression on her face, but Kirk chose to ignore the familiar banter between his officers.

"I think we should head that way and check it out."

Kirk took the lead this time. McCoy shot a final glance over his shoulder, taking in the gloom they had left behind, told his intuition to back off, and fell in line. Solorio matched his pace, but she had withdrawn into herself. He met her silence with his own, half-listening to Spock and Kirk, their conversation speculating on the origins and purpose of the structure ahead. It began to loom larger in the distance, its outline coming into relief against the trees.

In the space of a second they were suddenly at the edge of the treeline. Kirk froze for less than a heartbeat, then veered to the right, taking cover under the lush canopy of one of the trees.

"What just happened?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

All eyes turned to Spock. He lifted an eyebrow, then spoke in a dry tone.

"I am unable to supply an analysis at this time, Captain. Insufficient data."

"It felt like we just popped over here," McCoy said uneasily. "Like a transporter without all the noise and…" he trailed off, unsure how to describe the experience, but Kirk nodded.

"Yes, like we were simply moved. Like...like pieces on a chess board." He stood frowning, hands on hips, his face deeply lined by shadows, and when he spoke he had to pitch his voice over the background roar McCoy had heard earlier.

"Let's practice some discretion here until we have a better idea of what we're walking into." He waved his hand at them and ducked further into the tree cover.

The shade was a welcome relief, and here the quiet roar, an indistinct murmur of water, refined into a powerful rush overlaid with rumbles and splashes. Above, the leaves quivered and whispered with a _shushing_ that reminded McCoy of a stand of aspen. He stepped to his right and brushed a limb away, and was rewarded with a glimpse of the river, swishing and churning, gritty with silt, thundering around boulders and whipping up frothy eddies of whitewater. He stood mesmerized, transported back to the oily, languid creek of his nightmares, and started when he sensed Spock step up behind him.

"I would speculate that this is the same river that carved the canyon into which Lieutenant Solorio nearly fell earlier today," he said, eyeing the water calmly.

McCoy looked over his shoulder and squinted at the sunlight that backlit the Vulcan. "You really think we've somehow gone back in time here, Spock?" he asked.

Spock stood silent for a beat, then shook his head slowly, and turned in acknowledgment at Kirk's approach. "No, not precisely, Doctor. I will have to reserve further judgment pending further contact with the being I believe is controlling this place." His lips tightened and his hooded eyes became unreadable as he withdrew into the tree cover. Kirk cleared his throat.

"Let's continue on, then." He took a step away from the river bank, in the direction of the structure, then muttered a curse as Solorio's figure disappeared beyond a cluster of trees and undergrowth.

"Come on," he said, without looking back. McCoy blinked, and then they were at the edge of the treeline, mere steps from the structure that had only just moments before been hundreds of meters in the distance.

"This is getting ridiculous," he said, biting back the note of anxiety that threatened to razor-edge his voice as he tightened his arms around his midsection, trying for a sense of groundedness that escaped him. Solorio glanced at him, her expression unreadable but her features drawn and pale.

"I am detecting a state of impatience from the entity, Captain," Spock announced, his face still placid, but concern deepening his voice as he glanced from Kirk to his tricorder.

The captain stood wary and still, sunlight dappling lazily through the leaves across his face.

"Yes, apparently it's tired of waiting for us. For you," he amended, turning to look sharply at Solorio. She stood, restrained, but a look of miserable anticipation now spread across her face. "Go on," he nodded in her direction. "We're right behind."

It was smaller than expected, from its distant, imposing impression, its footprint was not much larger than that of the _Enterprise_ hangar deck. But there was no doubt of its importance, given its elevation, and the ornate decoration and attention to detail lavished upon it by its builders. It gleamed, almost blinding with sunlight reflected from the smooth, iridescent substance that made up its exterior walls. There were no breaks or apertures to be seen; only a single massive door, of a black material that seemed to swallow up the light, broke its sleek, smoky gray surface.

Solorio was there already, leaning into it with hands splayed out, banging against it, breath coming in gasps. The door was dust-streaked and mottled with the accumulation of years of weather exposure but was immovable against her blows. She let out a cry of wordless frustration as Spock arrived at her side, tricorder already scanning.

"Patience, Lieutenant," he said dryly. "This is clearly meant to be a functional opening; I submit that we must merely ascertain its mode of entrance. The structure is covered in nacre, Captain," he added as Kirk reached them and tilted his head back to survey the building. "Mother of pearl," he clarified at the captain's questioning look. "Placed here in an intricately designed mosaic pattern."

McCoy made his way to the group and stood behind Solorio as she backed away and tried to assemble her features into a semblance of calm.

"Easy," he said under his breath, more for himself than her. He took a step back and swept his gaze across the entirety of the building, then something snagged his attention and he glanced back at the entrance.

"Do you see that?" he asked and reached out to rub his sleeve against the dust and grime on the door just above her head. "From this angle, can you see it? It's faint, though."

She leaned away and squinted as Kirk reached out and cupped his hands around the area McCoy indicated, to block the brightest of the sun's rays. A collection of symbols appeared there in the shadows, glowing across the surface of the door. She blew her breath out all at once: these shapes had haunted her dreams and driven her to obsession and compulsion, to filling canvas and aluminum and all manner of surfaces with them with her oils and acrylics and pastels, and finally, against her will, to this very place.

"You know what those are, Lieutenant," Kirk said quietly. It wasn't a question. She looked at him, startled, and blinked several times then locked eyes with him. "I do, too. Go ahead."

She stood on her toes and reached up, hand trembling, and touched one of the characters, then closed her eyes as she traced her finger across to another, then another, spelling out a sequence, becoming more sure as she went. She opened her eyes and hesitated, then shot a questioning look at Kirk. He nodded, then his hand went instinctively to the phaser at his side, sensing Spock do the same behind him.

She drew her finger to the final sigil, replicating the pattern that had haunted her, and held her breath in the silence. Then there was a sound, a mechanical groaning as if something joined were being rent apart, and with a low rumble the door began to swing outward.

Kirk's grip on his weapon tightened as his instincts warned him before his senses could process what happened next, then she was pulled inward and dragged by something unseen into the darkness inside.


	16. Chapter 16

Another blink, and they were inside, too. McCoy drew in a sharp breath and fought the urge to cover his eyes, to push away the sense of unreality that washed over him.

It was bright here, almost unnaturally so, and smelled faintly of oatmeal raisin cookies and lemon furniture oil. A table sat slightly offset from the center of the room, its unfinished wooden surface tattooed with countless overlapping coffee mug rings and surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs. Against the far wall sat two cabinets, bookending a glossy white porcelain sink. A picture window sat above it, topped with a faded half-curtain of yellow fabric patterned with green and red apples. Through the window he glimpsed a slice of the backyard and, as he expected, a creek beyond. In this place dusk was drawing near, casting the cluster of elms that snugged up against the water into shades of gray. The screen door creaked lazily in an unseen breeze and the cooling unit tucked behind a half wall wheezed and rumbled just as he remembered.

In the corner, in the rocking chair with the ruffled blue gingham cushions that were flattened with wear, the chair that had belonged to McCoy's grandmother in his reality, someone—no, some _thing_ , he corrected himself internally—was sitting, looking far more comfortable than McCoy felt.

He decided to close his eyes after all, in the child's logic of _if I can't see it, it's not there_ , but Kirk's voice cut in, and his brief illusion was broken.

"Who are you? What is this?" the captain demanded, phaser still drawn.

The being unfolded himself and rose from the chair. He appeared human, or at least humanoid, and possessed at first glance some of the most nondescript features McCoy had ever observed. He thought if he looked away, even for a few seconds, he would not be able to remember what he, or it, looked like.

"Captain Kirk," it said, and stepped forward. "Greetings. I wanted to create a setting that was familiar to you. A welcoming environment. I found this—" he gestured at the surroundings—"in the doctor's mind a moment ago. I hope it is an appropriate schema."

Kirk shot a glance at McCoy, who did not trust the steadiness of his voice enough to reply.

"It is satisfactory," Spock replied from his position behind Kirk. His hair gleamed blue-black in the odd light. "May we ask your name, sir?"

"Ah, the illustrious Mister Spock. It is a pleasure to meet you in person. You are rather more...human than I expected, after our psychic rendezvous earlier today. Or was it yesterday?" he mused. "Or perhaps tomorrow. Alas, it does not matter. It is you," he turned to Solorio, "who holds my interest." He extended a hand to the lieutenant. "My name is Llyr."

She stood, arms crossed, unblinking, and McCoy wondered if the creature could detect the faint trembling that overcame her body. Where her fingernails dug into the flesh of her arms, pinpoints of blood welled up beneath their ragged edges. His hand hung suspended for a moment until he sighed and nodded.

"Very well. Niceties are not my strong suit, anyway. Captain, Mister Spock, I suggest you put your toys away now. They will be of no use to you here."

Spock, who had been surreptitiously glancing at his tricorder, turning the controls this way and that, met Llyr's gaze with a curious look, then turned to Kirk.

"Either my instrument is malfunctioning, or this does not seem to exist, Captain. Neither this place, nor our surroundings," he clarified. "Further, my readings indicate that our host exists as simple energy, Captain; no more, no less. Phaser fire would likely have no effect on him."

Kirk studied his phaser for a moment, then clicked the safety before replacing it on his hip. "All right, Llyr. You've brought us here for a reason, so let's hear it. What do you want?"

"On the contrary, Captain," the being responded, wagging his finger at Kirk. "I did not bring _all_ of you here, as you may recall. I wished only to bring the young woman here."

"Solorio. My name is Solorio." She stepped forward now, toward him, jaw jutting out in a stubborn way that reminded McCoy of more than one testy encounter with her.

He stared down at her, gaze piercing. "You don't recall who I am, do you?" he asked softly.

She frowned and shook her head. "Why would I know you, other than the time you've spent without permission in my head? I've never been here before."

His hands clenched and his eyes darkened, then he smiled and patted the back of a chair. "Won't you sit down? All of you? I would offer you something to drink, but it would not be to your liking, I'm afraid."

"No, thank you," Kirk responded. "What we would like is for you to release whatever hold you have on my lieutenant, and allow us to return to our reality."

"That's not possible," he responded flatly. "The female is mine. I require her."

 _The female._ Solorio tried without success to suppress her grimace, and Kirk blinked several times, biting his tongue as he sorted through the implications of Llyr's words.

"She's not yours to have." McCoy finally spoke up. "And what _are_ you? Are there others here?"

At the last question, Llyr's eyes turned flinty and his jaw tightened. "Others of my kind? No."

"That is an atypical evolutionary path," Spock said. "Unless you mean that there are _no longer_ any others here."

"I am the only of my kind here," Llyr said, his voice strained, shifting into a higher register. "I was left behind by my people on this planet long before life began to evolve here. They are explorers from another galaxy who continued on to look for more interesting places."

"Left behind? On purpose?" Kirk asked, keeping his tone even. "Or is that your people's tradition, to allow each to choose a planet and make it your own?"

"No, Captain. I committed an infraction. Quite a grievous one, according to my people's moral code. My punishment was to be banished here, as caretaker, to live my life shunned by my kind and repay a debt that can never be repaid."

"What, may I ask, was your infraction?"

Llyr smiled without humor. "I believe the word you would use is 'genocide,' perhaps. I was just coming into my powers, you see, and thought it would be amusing to set a planet's people against themselves, to suggest a need for self-annihilation. The others were horrified, naturally, and in retribution they stripped me of many of my abilities and incarcerated me here until I could understand my error and repent. They should be checking in on me in the next five hundred thousand years or so."

McCoy wondered how much of his flippancy was affected. "You were just a child when you were abandoned here."

"Spare me your pity, Doctor," Llyr sneered. "I have no use for it, or you. Only her."

"But five hundred thousand years is just the blink of an eye for you," Kirk argued. "Get your act together, show a little remorse, and you could be out of here before you know it. You said you require her, but what's so urgent that you can't survive just a little while longer? Is there something we can provide you with instead? So that she can be released?"

He waved his hand dismissively at Kirk. "No. You—" he turned to Solorio. "You say you do not recognize me? Perhaps you know me in this form instead?"

His figure shimmered, became translucent, then re-solidified into something new. Gone was the banal and unremarkable humanoid, replaced with a towering being of silvery, scaly skin, webbed hands and flat black eyes. Their cheery surroundings blinked and faded and they were instead inside a massive stone structure whose walls reached upward farther than they could see, illuminated only faintly by flickering sconces affixed to recesses carved into the stone. Then there was the familiar _pop_ and McCoy's kitchen reappeared, along with the humanoid version of Llyr.

Solorio's face drained of color, and her breath was ragged in the silence. "I don't understand," she said, her voice trembling.

"You are the last inheritor of a special talent," Llyr said, his words coming quickly now. "Your father, and his father, and a very long line of ancestors before him, carried the ability to commune with me. They were the shamans, then the oracles, then priests and priestesses, in the days long ago, when your race still worshipped me."

"You were their god." Solorio said.

"I was _your_ god. But eventually your people grew out of that particular kind of need, so they built a place for me, this place, and locked me inside, visiting me only on special days for celebration or grief. Your kind, though, were beholden; you took a vow to stay with me. Your father entered into a covenant and promised you to me. Then he left. They ruined this place, sucked every last bit of life from it, then they all left." His voice had taken on a petulant tone.

"But I took no such vow—" Solorio began, but Kirk held up his hand to stop her.

"If it's companionship you desire, Llyr, we—or she, rather—can free you from this place. That's what the pattern on the door was for, right? To either lock you in or open up this space to release you? You may not be able to leave the planet, but we can give you access to any manner of communication with others."

"You _fool_. I do not need a nursemaid, or a soul mate, or a galactic—" he closed his eyes in concentration and McCoy flinched as he felt a word plucked from his mind—"a galactic _penpal_. I want only her. I need her genetic material."

There was silence in the space, broken only by the languid hum of the cooler and the steady _tick-tock_ of the old-style clock hung on the wall over the sink. Solorio pushed her hair behind her ears and drew a deep breath.

"You can't have me," she said, but there was a note of uncertainty that elicited a small smile from Llyr.

"But I already do. The terrible pulling apart in your mind, it's gone now that you're here, isn't it? If you try to leave, I will haunt you until it drives you mad, or you meet your death. You cannot resist or escape. If I cannot convince you to stay peaceably," he continued, "I shall be forced to terminate your friends in a much more painful manner than I anticipated."

His words hung there for a moment. McCoy squashed down the images that blossomed in his head, the collection of gruesome deaths visited upon his crewmates by various god-like beings over the years, destined to be dissected and examined on his autopsy table. He stole a glance at Solorio, who had a thoughtful expression on her face rather than the fear or emptiness he expected. He cleared his throat, swallowing the choking sensation that was crawling up his gullet.

"If it's DNA you need, we may be able to arrange to provide you with samples that will leave the lieutenant unharmed." He pretended not to notice Kirk's glower. "In exchange for our safe release," he added.

Llyr backed up a step and sat heavily in the rocking chair and sighed. "Doctor, you fail to understand the situation. I need—"

"You need the entirety of the lieutenant's corporeal form," Spock interrupted. "In order to introduce intelligent life. Or reintroduce, as the case may be."

Llyr stood abruptly again, sending the chair against the wall with a _bang_. "Yes, Mister Spock!" he exclaimed, "You have deduced my intent precisely. I can begin this world anew, return it to its original pristine condition of billions of years ago, and I can subvert the evolutionary process to some extent, to create lower life forms, but I cannot create sentient life. I am hobbled by that single inability. But you," he said as he neared Solorio and reached his hand out to caress her hair. She flinched and sidestepped his touch. "You contain all I need to bypass millions of years of evolution and birth a new civilization."

"One that will worship you again," Kirk said neutrally, though McCoy knew his friend well enough to detect the disgust that laced his words. "Llyr, I have had quite enough of your manipulations of my crew. She—we—are not objects to be strung along at your bidding. Nor is she yours to do with as you wish."

"How very gallant, Captain," Llyr replied, and the officious smile on his face faded. ""But I'm afraid that this is rather out of your hands. It always has been, of course. Your arrival here—"

"I'll stay," Solorio interrupted. Kirk stared at her, incredulous, Spock levelled an unreadable look at her, and McCoy tried and failed to tamp down the bubble of frustration and exhaustion that ballooned and then burst inside his head like a splash of acid, exacerbated by the sheer disorientation and psychic reverberations of being in this place.

"Goddammit, Solorio," he snapped. "That's not your decision. It wasn't then, and it isn't now. You're not helping."

She stared at him, agape, but he didn't have a chance to regret his words before Llyr continued.

"As I was saying, Captain, your arrival here at the last moment will have no effect on the events that play out here. On the contrary—" he stopped abruptly, a frown creasing his otherwise smooth features and a listening tilt to his head. "Oh," he breathed after a moment, "our situation is becoming more uncertain as we speak. Several avenues of possibility are coming into focus."

"What do you mean?" Kirk demanded, and he reached out of habit to his communicator, then hesitated.

"Your ship, your crew, is safe, Captain," Llyr said. "No, something else, someone else approaches."

McCoy's heart sunk. _Oh good lord,_ he thought heavenward. _Not now, Helen._

* * *

"Sir? I've just lost the away team."

Scotty stood so quickly the center chair swung to and fro as he approached Chekov.

"What do you mean, you've _lost them_?" the engineer demanded. Chekov cringed inside but straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat before responding.

"I don't know what happened, sir. They were there, then they weren't. No life signs at all, just gone."

"Any unusual readings from the planet, mister?"

"No, sir. No atmospheric fluctuations, no changes in readings at all."

"Uhura, try the captain's communicator."

Uhura already had her ear piece in place, and nodded as she turned to her board. The bridge was silent but for the background beeps and pings of the sensors and computing systems. After a moment she swiveled around, her face grave.

"Nothing, sir. I tried all three, and no response. It acts like an open channel, but I can't pick up any audible feedback. Just some background clutter on the infrasound frequencies."

"Sir!" This time Chekov was unsuccessful in hiding his surprise. "Shuttlecraft approaching at forty-two mark six, range ten thousand kilometers. At warp five, sir!"

"Bloody hell," Scott muttered. "Warp five? That's not possible. Registry information, Ensign?"

"Aye, sir. Coming through now...DS3-0013. A long-range courier. That's all we have on her."

"From DS3, is she? Well, here she is, then. I guess nobody taught her it's rude to show up early to a party." he said mostly to himself. He wasn't entirely clear about what was going on, but he had his orders. He pivoted to Uhura again. "Lassie, send a universal hello and warn her off. Tell her it's official Starfleet business. That might hold her for a minute until we can locate the Captain and the others. Chekov, continue scanning for our people down there."

"Aye, sir."

Scotty tugged his tunic into place and went through a few scenarios in his head as he waited for Uhura to provide an update. _She ignores us, goes right in for a landing_ _—_ _we can't do anything, shooting an Intelligence officer out of orbit would put me on a one-way trip to a penal colony. But we could give her a wee push with a tractor beam, or maybe a tightly-focused EMP to one of her nacelles, just disable her enough to prevent entering the atmosphere. But how could I justify that? We don't allow trigger-happy fingers on_ this _bridge, can't blame it on a wet-behind-the-ears cadet. Maybe—_

His internal strategy session was interrupted by Chekov's exclamation, and he looked up to see the young officer leaning so far over his instruments he was almost half out of his chair.

"Mister Scott! The shuttle, it has lost power and engines are in overload!"

On the viewscreen, the small craft was slowing and listing slightly to starboard. Scotty breathed a quiet, guilty sigh of relief and thanked whatever deity or higher power might be watching for pruning his decision-making tree.

"Uhura, no response? All right, try raising her again. Tell her we're going to throw a tractor beam on her and bring her in, or we'll beam out any passengers if need be."

"Aye, sir," came Uhura's murmured response. Then Scotty watched in shock as the shuttle slowly tore apart at its seams, sending wall panels and instrument displays into a small cloud of debris. He saw an emergency medical kit, bright red among the gray and black, drift past, its strap hooked around the back of a crew chair. He scanned the viewscreen, searching for the tell-tale sheen and glare of a spacesuit and helmet that could indicate the person or persons aboard had time to follow emergency evacuation procedures.

" _Yolki_ - _palki_ ," breathed Chekov.

"Any life signs in the wreckage?" A new voice joined the discussion, and Scotty looked over his shoulder to see Christine Chapel standing where McCoy could usually be found in times like these, just behind the captain's chair. He hadn't even heard the lift doors open.

"No sir, nothing." Sulu's terse reply sent a slump through Scotty's shoulders, but he couldn't take his eyes off the viewscreen. It may be too late for rescue, but there should be something to recover. There was no explosion, and there was nowhere else for a body to go.

"What happened? What could cause that?" Sulu frowned at his instruments, then at the viewscreen, then at Chekov, who shrugged.

"Mister Scott." Uhura's quiet voice broke through the stunned silence. "I never received a response before the—the incident. Shall I contact Deep Space Three?"

"Och," he said, still searching the debris field for something, anything, that could give him hope, and still finding nothing. _But there should be_ something _out there_. "Ah dinnae ken, lassie."

* * *

Helen Noel hadn't spent countless hours studying for the Starfleet Academy entrance exam with any hope or intention of becoming a pilot. Which turned out to be a good thing: as a first-year cadet, after failing her third qualifying flight in the same number of months, the flight instructor, looking a little green and shaky, banished her to the simulator for the remainder of the term.

The next year she was allowed to practice with an ancient but sturdy two-seater flight trainer. The little ship came with a grizzled instructor who looked to be of the same vintage as the craft and who grumbled incessantly about how back in the good old days, you had to parallel park to get your license, dammit.

In her last term at the Academy, to her astonishment she passed the Level One pilot exam, then promptly slid a shuttle almost off the end of a runway, its nose hanging precariously over the cold gray waters of the San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate so close she thought she could reach out and touch it. Instead, she was unceremoniously marched to the Main Building and up the stairs to the Commandant's office, then sat in silence as the woman studied something on her monitor, scrolling occasionally, her expression becoming increasingly dour. She finally looked up.

"You've been admitted to Starfleet Medical?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have any intention of pursuing flight medicine?"

"No, sir."

The Commandant, all iron curls and hawkish nose, stood and leaned over her desk, hands knuckled against the wood. "Excellent. I'm placing restrictions A and E on your license. You are forbidden from ever piloting a warp-capable Starfleet craft, nor may you fly a craft with passengers. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

So being out here, at the controls of one of the Fleet's most advanced craft was a violation of restriction A but not E; the other way around, she reasoned, would have been a much more egregious violation. The fact that it was a stolen craft, though, would most certainly have her license revoked and see her tossed in her own brig if she were caught.

Fortunately, this craft was equipped with a highly adaptive and intuitive auto-pilot system, though she had a growing, uneasy suspicion that, compared to a few short days ago, her fate was much less certain than her ship's course. Robert—who had been ever-present in her ear for months now, spurring her on, encouraging her, fanning the flames of her zealous pursuit to root out and destroy any hint of betrayal—seemed to be less present than usual lately. Her CO's less-than-enthusiastic response to her detention and breaking of Brodie had surprised her, but she had gone forward with her plans despite a new hesitation that she worked diligently to ignore.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle beeping from the controls, and she glanced over to see a planet in the distance, a small, gray, body still blurry at this distant, swaddled in a dense cloud cover.

"Attention: approaching Resliv system," the computer informed her. Her eyes widened as the display resolved and then placed a small red dot in orbit above the planet.

"Computer, identify ship in orbit," she ordered.

The computer beeped in acknowledgement and within a few seconds text appeared next to the little red dot: SHIP REGISTRY: USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701 read the display in block letters.

Before she could begin to assimilate this information—thoughts whirling about how this development would complicate her plans, questions about how Kirk had found the lieutenant at the same time, and the first bubbles of doubt beginning to percolate in her brain—a different kind of beeping began from the console in front of her, this one strident in a way that made her breath catch. She leaned forward, scanned the display and found the source: the engine system diagram was alit with red and yellow flashing lights.

"Warning," came the flat, mechanical voice of her ship. "Warp booster failure. Warning."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" she asked, fully expecting the computer to respond. The computer, however, was silent, likely programmed to assume it was being piloted by a competent professional who knew what to do in such circumstances.

"Robert," she said, trying to contain the panic that welled up in her chest. But of course Robert wasn't there, not really, not anymore. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to indulge in self-pity to the count of ten, then unbuckled her seat restraint and made her way to the passenger compartment and knelt next to the access hatch that lay flush against the deck of the craft. She pried it open with a grunt, ignoring the tearing across her fingernail as it caught along the edge, and crouched over the opening, hands clutching at the edges, peering into the innards of the engine compartment. She pushed impatiently at her hair where it had come loose from its bun, swiped her bloody fingernail against her uniform jacket, and contemplated her options.

She knew where the warp booster was, because she had personally stolen it from the InTech Spec Lab while Ensign Carruthers was briefly rendered unconscious by the ambizine she had slipped into his coffee and then installed it. The device was smaller than she'd expected, and to her relief came with complete step-by-step pictograph instructions for piggy-backing it onto the existing engine assembly. She just disengaged a coupling, slid the booster onto one of the auxiliary tanks, bypassed one of the fuel lines, hooked it up the conduit, and _voila_ , her little Starfleet regulation-type shuttle (well, not _hers_ , exactly) was capable of speeds matching those of a Constitution-class ship.

Except, she realized now with dismay, she must have done something wrong, because the device was now lit up with a series of rapidly blinking red lights, and the voice coming from the navigation console was becoming piercingly loud.

Desperate, she reached in to disconnect the device, searching around underneath for the original connections, digging blind because of the tangle of wiring and chips and tubing. With a breath of relief she found the cable and just as she shifted the booster underneath her left arm to free up both hands, the engines gave a shrieking sound, the computer's voice ceased abruptly, and the shuttle was filled with silence. She sensed a lurching to the right— _no, starboard,_ the grizzly instructor corrected in her head—then the gravity went out and the lights blinked off. There was a curious sensation of pressure, her ears felt like they might burst.

 _Am I dying? Is this what it feels like? But why would I be dying?_ she argued with herself as she scrabbled for a hand-hold along the cushion of one of the passenger seats as it tore from its base and began floating. _The shuttle still has atmosphere, and—_

Her ears finally popped, and the ship shimmered and creaked around her as she felt her body began to dissolve. She felt a rush of air outward, then her eats began ringing and her skin tingled as her sight went black.

" _Oh, shit."_

* * *

In McCoy's country cabin, he had just enough time to finish sending his entreaty into the ether before he felt the air change somehow, _tighten_ was the best word for it, and then in the space by the back door appeared a disheveled woman clad in a black uniform with a Starfleet insignia unlike any he had seen before, holding a small, curiously-shaped metallic object, and wearing a stunned expression across her delicate features. She looked so bewildered he was half-tempted to feel sorry for her, then he remembered what she had done to that poor man who had helped Solorio, and why she was here, chasing after Solorio in the first place, and his pity morphed into rage.

"What is this place?" she asked, glancing from LLyr to the others, then back. "Who are you?"

Llyr tilted his head at her, and a slow, small smile spread across his face but did not reach his eyes. He did not respond, but stared at her for a long moment, and her eyes grew larger as she blinked rapidly, whimpered, tried to look away but could not, then she cried out in shrieks that made McCoy's ears ring and his skin crawl.

"Stop it!" he growled as he took a half step toward the creature, fists clenched, then felt himself thrown back by an invisible force, landing against the old china cabinet in the corner on his already-injured shoulder. He gritted his teeth to hold back a grunt of pain, but was glad to see that Llyr had broken his stare with Helen. Kirk was by the back door, at her side where Helen had slumped to the floor, and was talking to her in murmurs McCoy could not make out. The device she had been holding was on its side next to her, and he could see upside-down writing on it, in the familiar, standard Fleet font. From this angle, he thought he could make out some of the words: PROPERTY OF STARFLEET INTELLI—then on the next line, in smaller letters, PROTOYPE ONLY WARP BOOSTER SERIES VII—

Solorio seemed rooted in place with fear, and Spock watched with what appeared to be indifference, but the Vulcan's sharp voice betrayed his body language.

"Llyr, I must ask the purpose of bringing Doctor Noel into this place," Spock said.

"I suspected she would attempt to disrupt my intentions, and her mind has told me that my suspicions were correct. She must be controlled until I have contained this situation, just as you must be."

"She was the one who was coming for me?" Solorio was there next to McCoy now, and whispered her question at him. "She hurt Brodie?"

He nodded while rubbing his shoulder. "Yes, that's her. Helen Noel, formerly of the _Enterprise_ , currently Starfleet Intelligence."

"Bones." Kirk twisted to look at them, and gestured at the doctor. "She needs help."

"No, I'm fine. Just help me up, please, Jim."

But she wasn't fine, he could hear it in the way her words seem to melt together and could see it from here, how one side of her mouth drooped and a thin trickle of blood made its way from her nose to her chin. She wiped at it with one of her sleeves, and leaned unsteadily against Kirk as he grasped her arms and pulled her upright. Her foot slipped, bumping the device she had dropped, and it clattered against the doorframe.

"What did you do to her?" McCoy demanded as he crossed the room in three large steps. He nudged Kirk out of the way and slipped an arm around her, then guided her to the nearest chair.

Llyr ignored him, his attention snared by the device. "What is that?" Llyr asked, and his expression reminded McCoy of a barn cat with a mouse in its sights.

"Part of my ship. I was holding it when you brought me here." Her words were definitely slurred now. She grimaced and cradled her head in her hands for a moment, then tried to look up at Llyr, but one of her eyes remained fixed straight ahead. Even if his tricorder would work here, McCoy didn't need it to tell him what was happening.

"What does it do?"

"Why does it interest you?" Spock asked. "Surely a being of pure energy would have no need for a ship's engine component."

"Engine—" Llyr started, eyebrows raised, then a crafty look came over his face. "So it produces energy?"

Spock began to speak, but Kirk turned to him and made a furious gesture with his hand. The Vulcan closed his mouth and stared at Llyr, inscrutable.

"Tell us what you did to her, and I'll tell you what it does," Kirk countered.

"I merely extracted information from her. I was tiring of your delays and obfuscations, and I assumed that given her intent to pursue your party, she would possess information that would clarify the situation. There was no need to preserve her physical integrity in taking from her what I needed."

"You damaged her."

"It was inadvertent, I assure you. I am not needlessly cruel, Doctor. Now tell me what this does," he said, his voice rising, as he lifted the device and turned it this way and that in the waning sunlight.

McCoy remembered that there were voice controlled environmental controls here, or at least there were in _his_ version of the cabin, and wondered if they would work here. Wondered just how deeply Llyr had mined his memories to put this place together, as his eyes were drawn to the deepening shadows that were collecting in the corners of the room. Wondered how a being who had chosen a sea-dwelling form as its external appearance, who had been cooped up in a dark prison on a dead planet for a very long time, might have adapted its optic nerve—or whatever equivalent it might have come up with—to the light in its surroundings. And how much of its own energy it was pouring into keeping this place, and all of them, under his control. He thought of Trelane, and Apollo of Pollux, and their vulnerabilities. His hand went to the communicator at his hip and he closed his eyes.

"Lights, three hundred percent," he called out, without thinking his plan through completely, and flipped open his communicator with one hand, his other hand shielding his eyes. " _Enterprise_ , come in," he said into it, ignoring the cries of surprise from the humans and the unearthly screeching from Llyr. His heart thumped when he heard a crackling, and then the sweet, familiar sound of Uhura's voice.

"Doctor McCoy? Is that you? Doctor—"

The communicator crackled again, but this time it was from sparks that flew up from the antenna grid. He swore and dropped it as the lights suddenly went dark, then gradually flickered up to the dimness of dusk. He blinked at the afterimages that crowded his vision, and saw Kirk doing the same. Solorio was rubbing her eyes, and Helen was sitting at the table, still and silent, her head in her hands. Spock appeared unperturbed. _Those damn inner eyelids_ , he realized, jealous for once of the Vulcan's physiology. He glanced at Llyr, unsure what to expect.

"That was a fatal mistake," Llyr rasped. His image was unstable, flickering between humanoid and the enormous creature he had transformed into earlier. In between, there were glimpses of something entirely different, brief flashes of an outline of darkness filled with purple black yellow light that infused McCoy with dread and nausea. Quicker than he could blink again, Llyr was at Solorio's side, warp booster in one hand, the other wrapped tightly around her neck. She clawed at his hand, leaving scratches on him as she gasped, and Helen lurched to her feet.

"Wait," she said, swaying briefly, then held out a hand toward Llyr. The other arm hung limply at her side.

"Helen, you need to—" McCoy began, but she cut him off.

"No, I know what I need to do, Leonard." Even in the dim light, he could see that one of her pupils was blown, and he took a step toward her before he felt Spock's iron grip on his shoulder.

"No, Doctor."

He knew the threat of a Vulcan nerve pinch when he felt it. "What the hell, Spock? Let me try to take care of her!" he whispered furiously. Solorio's eyes were wide and her face was taking on a dusky hue. He felt Kirk tense next to him, coiled into readiness.

"I suspect the commander knows what she is doing. Do not interfere," Spock ground out.

Helen shuffled carefully toward Llyr and Solorio, a fresh stream of blood appearing below her nose, and when she reached them she paused, her breath rapid and shallow. She looked up slowly at Llyr as if her head were very heavy, and touched the device he held.

"I know why you want this. You are powerful but energy is not infinite. And rebuilding this world and all of its life is going to destroy you." She stopped to catch her breath and then cough, a thick, wet rattle that McCoy had heard too many times before, and it filled him with sorrow. "You don't know how to use it, though. Fusion reactor. Flip the wrong switch, it's all over. You let them go, I'll show you." She was gasping with each breath now, her speech reduced to shorthand.

"No. After you demonstrate the device, I will let you and the others go back to their ship. But the female stays with me."

"Okay," Helen replied amiably, only one eye open now. "Deal. Outside. Little dangerous in here. C'mon." She turned to look directly at Kirk and gave him a brilliant and ghastly smile, then tilted her head at Solorio, still writhing under Llyr's grasp.

"Sorry. I understand now. Just wanted to—to keep us safe."

She tugged at Llyr's arm and he loosened his grip on Solorio; she stumbled, landing on her hands and knees, gasping, sucking in deep, desperate, choking breaths as Llyr pushed open the door. It creaked, twice, just as McCoy remembered it, then slammed back against the frame on its spring hinges as Helen disappeared, the sound of her dragging gait through the ground cover fading quickly. It was completely dark outside now, as it can only be in the remotest places in the galaxy, and in the new silence he could hear the katydids, the rustle of wind through the elm trees, the ripple of water in the creek, and a bubble of bile rose in his throat.

 _Pull yourself together, McCoy_ , he told himself sternly. _This is not a dream._

As he reached a hand out to help Solorio to her feet, he heard he chirp of a communicator, and knew Jim would be trying to reach the ship, trying anything to get them out of this alive, as he always did.

"Dammit." Kirk twisted the controls, but there was only silence, and he snapped it shut. "Spock, what do you think she's doing? He's not going to give us up, or Solorio either, not if he needs her," he said, indicating the lieutenant with a lift of his chin. "I know she's trying to buy a few minutes of time, but I'm not sure it will do us any good."

"And what's she on about, giving him _more_ power?" McCoy fretted.

"I suspect the good doctor intends to use the warp booster to her advantage. To _our_ advantage," Spock added at Kirk's skeptical expression.

"Wait. What—do you mean she intends to use it as a weapon against him? But you said he's energy, and energy can't be destroyed," Solorio said, her voice raspy and uneven.

"The conservation of energy is rather settled law," Spock conceded. "However, a nuclear reaction could convert Llyr's energy to another state. One in which he in rendered...harmless."

"You mean she plans to destroy him," Kirk said quietly. Spock clasped his hands behind his back and looked over Kirk's head.

"That's not the line of business I'm in, Spock," McCoy said, just as quietly.

"Doctor, do you have an alternative proposal? Llyr intends to detain the lieutenant and perhaps destroy us out of frustration or spite. As we have seen with Doctor Noel, he has the ability to affect vessels in orbit as well; he could injure or damage the _Enterprise_ and her crew. We have nothing with which to bargain, nor do we have any other means of stopping him."

"Okay, fine," Kirk said, a note of defeat in his voice. "It's literally out of our hands at this point. I can't approve of Helen's methods, but we are in a precarious ethical position."

"Shouldn't we be more concerned about the nuclear reaction that's gonna happen right outside? Aren't we a little too close for comfort? Do we have time to get back out of here, far enough away to mitigate our exposure?" McCoy asked. Kirk gave him a surprised but unworried look, and Spock shook his head.

"The captain and I have seen the prototype schematics for this device, Doctor, as I assume Doctor Noel has as well, given her Intelligence connections. Once installed and activated, the booster becomes part of a closed system involving a fusion reaction in an intense, focused stream of energy. It will function in the same manner here, except of course without the necessary infrastructure and shielding—"

"I don't need an engineering lecture, Spock!" McCoy shouted.

"—but unless within several meters of the device, the radiation exposure levels will not exceed maximum safety levels," Spock continued, ignoring the doctor's outburst.

"Well, that's reassuring," he muttered. "So that means—shit, Jim, she's gonna go out with him! We can't let her do that!"

"Bones." Kirk grabbed McCoy's arm as the doctor stumbled on his way to the door, drawing him up short. He struggled against the captain's grip briefly before realizing he was no match for Kirk's strength. "Bones, we'll do what we have to do, just as Helen will. And even I could see that it was too late for her."

Before he could respond, there was a sudden high pitched whine and an enormous clap from the vicinity of where McCoy guessed the creek would be, if this were his real cabin and woods. Through the picture window they watched the night sky light up with an eerie green glow. There was a howling roar that made McCoy's teeth rattle, then a terrible silence, followed by an immense pressure that enveloped the space, pushing in on him until he feared his eardrums would burst and his eyeballs explode. He heard Spock shouting something, tinny and distant through the ringing in his ears, and then—

* * *

 _As we've come to understand, there is no such thing as the unknown, only the temporarily unhidden._

Kirk's words, from all those years ago, had stuck with him, and they arose now unbidden as a familiar, if unsettling, tingling faded and McCoy screwed up the courage to open his eyes. The first thing that appeared was the red and green of the _Enterprise_ transporter room around him; then Kirk, Spock, and Solorio. The anxious, then relieved face of Scotty behind the control console was the second thing he saw.

"That was quite the flare you sent up, sir. We were a wee bit worried until the doctor checked in."

"Flare?" Kirk asked, momentarily disoriented. "Oh, yes, that makes sense."

"There were no other life signs, Scotty?"

"No, I grabbed everyone I could find, Doctor."

"Any unusual energy readings from the planet?"

"Aye, Captain, other than the nuclear explosion that led us to you, there was a burst of unknown energy type that is rapidly dissipating. We have also beamed aboard the remains of a Starfleet shuttlecraft with a Deep Space 3 registry."

"I see," Kirk said heavily. "I believe the threat we faced has been neutralized. And we have lost a fellow officer. Please have Uhura contact the head of the Intelligence detachment at DS3 and patch them through to my quarters."

"Aye, sir."

McCoy held up a hand as Kirk turned to leave the transporter room. "Hold up, everyone. You're all coming to Sickbay so I can check our radiation exposure levels. Then I need to go back down."

"Why, Bones?"

McCoy looked at Kirk sideways, his eyes hooded. "Sir, we need to retrieve the remains of Commander Noel and return them to her family."

"She has no family, Doctor."

"That's...unfortunate, but irrelevant, Spock. We can't leave her down there. Permission to return, Captain?"

"With appropriate precautions, yes."

"Sir? May I go, too?"

Kirk looked at Solorio, took in the swelling and redness around her neck and the pinpoints of burst capillaries in her eyes. "Of course, Lieutenant, if the doctor clears you. Just stay close by this time."

* * *

When they returned the next day, the cabin in the field on a young, new planet, was gone, as Spock had warned. _LLyr may have merely conjured an illusion that was destroyed along with him. Whether one to fool us, or to fool himself, is impossible to know._

But the massive structure, the first version of it they had seen, the ancient ruins with the looming door Solorio had unlocked in different times, was still there. And the creek was still there, real in his dreams and in both worlds, but old and gentle in this one on its way from the melting glaciers to the canyon and caves further down.

Their radiation suits made movement slow and ponderous, and he let Solorio wander off upstream without question, sensing she had some unfinished business of her own. He knelt by the banks and examined the only remaining tangible evidence of Helen Noel's existence and demise. He removed the contamination containment bag from his supply bag and unfolded the flexible material against the slope of the ground next to her body, then, cursing the clumsiness of his gloved hands, lifted her onto the fabric and carefully, methodically wrapped it around her, almost like swaddling a baby. He avoided looking too closely at her face until the end, until he could put it off no longer, then folded the shroud over her burned, horribly distorted features with hands that were steady as always, not betraying the quaking in his guts.

The sound of leaves crunching under her boots told him Solorio had returned. She crouched beside him, her suit scrunching around her knees.

"I don't understand what happened with her. Why was she coming after me?" Her voice was hushed, barely audible above the splash of the creek.

He turned to look at her, trying to read her expression, but her face was mostly obscured by the glare from her protective visor. His attention returned to sealing the containment bag in preparation for beaming back up to the ship.

"Well, she got pulled into this by her own demons. Nothing to do with you, really." He knew, after a quick and dirty rundown from Helen's CO on DS3, that there was more he could say, but that telling her would be more about him than her. "I don't think, in the end, that she had any more control over the voices in her head than you did."

He glanced at both of their rad badges, and then, satisfied that their exposure levels were acceptable, he stood, and from this angle he could see her eyes, large and dark, and troubled for reasons he could not begin to fathom.

"Anything else you need to do here?"

It was a simple question on its surface, but they both knew what he was really asking. _Is it gone? Are you alone in there again?_

She drew a deep breath and lifted her gaze to take in their surroundings and commit them to her memory. The quiet rush of the water, the steely skies that loomed low and heavy above, the sticky mud beneath her boots and the chill that seeped even through the impenetrable barrier of her suit.

"I think I'm done here."

* * *

 **I have some loose ends to wrap up, so I'm not done with this. Let me know if there's anything you're wondering about and I'll be sure to weave it in.**


	17. Chapter 17

U.S.S. _Enterprise_

Briefing Room

Stardate 6028

1100 hours

They had been through it backward and forward already this morning, debating how much to enter into the record and how much to withhold for the sake of both a young lieutenant's future and an Intelligence officer's remembrance. Scotty was brought in earlier during Solorio's questioning at Kirk's discretion, to ensure a measure of objectivity, and still sat at the table there; his wide-eyed expression as he sat listening quietly to their debate betrayed a residue of incredulity.

Kirk looked at his empty coffee cup, winced at the grumbling in his stomach, and folded his hands atop the table. "Bones, it seems to me that this is more of a medical matter than a disciplinary issue."

McCoy made a noncommittal noise. "I think a reasonable person could draw any number of conclusions, Jim, though I understand it's more complicated than assessing the fallout of something like a brain injury or a neurochemical imbalance. But for the record, my medical log will state that the lieutenant's behavior over the last few months was a direct result of external influences, indicative of neither intrinsic motivations nor permanent physical or psychiatric conditions. I detect no treasonous or terroristic tendencies in her. She was, in my judgment, subjected to an extraordinary degree of mind control to which she was highly susceptible due to her psychic abilities."

"And in your opinion, Doctor, is Lieutenant Solorio still subject to such influences now?"

"No, sir. Following the events that transpired on Resliv Three, I believe the external influences in question have been neutralized. However, I would recommend regular monitoring of her status for a period of time."

"Sir," Spock said, "In addition to the doctor's recommendations, I offer that with the activation of the lieutenant's latent psychic abilities, she would benefit from intensive training in exploring and controlling those abilities, and that her willingness to participate in such training be factored into your disposition of this inquiry. I have initiated contact with a renowned practitioner at the Vulcan Medical Institute, and with your permission, will inquire into her availability to establish a course of instruction and mentorship with the lieutenant."

Kirk stood and stretched, his back beginning to protest the time he'd spent folded into the chair, and made a mental note to include a recommendation for improved seating specs when he submitted his end-of-tour report. _If they're gonna send people out here for five years at a time,_ he grumbled to himself, _the_ _least they could do is give us some padding. Or maybe I'm just getting old?_ Well, _that_ thought stopped him in his tracks, and he distracted himself by turning to Scotty. The engineer's face bore lines of concern that the captain was accustomed to seeing only when his engines were in danger, or his supply of Scotch was running low, and that prompted him to take a step back mentally.

"Permission granted, Spock. Anything you'd like to add, Scotty?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm a wee bit troubled. I feel as though the lass has been through enough hardship that was not even on her own account," Scotty said, looking first at Kirk and then at each of them in turn. "In terms of discipline warranted or not, that is."

Kirk clasped his hands behind his back and bit back a smile. "You're just an old softy, Scotty." He glanced around the table, eyebrows raised, and detecting no unspoken reservations among his officers, he nodded.

"Bring her back in, Spock."

"Sir?" said Scotty, and Kirk held up a hand to delay Spock. "If I may ask a question first, please?"

"Go ahead."

"I've already heard talk in the hallways and the rec rooms, Captain. People are asking about where she's been, why's she back now, what happened down there."

Kirk nodded. "Understandable. But this is where I get to play my command privilege card. The lieutenant is back on board after completing a classified mission. End of story," he said firmly. Scotty nodded, relief easing the tension in his expression.

Spock rose and stepped to the doorway, then reached out his hand to gesture into the corridor as it slid open. Solorio entered, moving more slowly than she had on the planet, and Kirk wondered if her injuries and fatigue had finally caught up with her. She stood just inside, uniform hanging loosely on her frame, her hair now cropped evenly, just long enough to be held back with a band of fabric. He waited until she raised her eyes to him before he spoke.

"Lieutenant, you stand accused of desertion. This official inquiry has been called to determine whether a general court-martial should be convened against you. Computer, begin recording."

"Recording inquiry," came the mechanical voice, followed by a pause and a clatter as something switched over inside of it. "Matter: Lieutenant Solorio, Tara. Subject: circumstances of desertion from Starfleet."

"Based upon the statements provided," Kirk began, "it is my judgment that any charges of desertion or unauthorized absence against Lieutenant Solorio be deferred pending completion of a course of instruction on Vulcan, and that upon completion such charges shall be dismissed. This hearing is adjourned. Computer, stop recording."

"Acknowledged. Recording complete."

In the silence that followed, Solorio's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. "That's it?"

Kirk undocked a tablet from the recording device and handed it to her. "Sign this," he said as held out a stylus, "and that's it. For now, anyway. Mister Spock will provide more information about your assignment on Vulcan. After you've completed your time there, I look forward to having you rejoin my crew."

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "I look forward to that as well, sir."

* * *

Sickbay

Stardate 6029

0800 hours

Chapel looked up from her desk when I entered and gave me a small smile and nod as I passed her.

"Good morning. Doctor McCoy is waiting for you in the bio-chem lab."

It felt familiar and alien at once here, this first time I stepped back into my previous life. No, I corrected myself, my previous like was gone. Over. Just the surroundings were the same. I made my way down the corridor to my old lab and found him standing there, squinting over a printed readout. Not many people did that anymore—printed things out to look at them, that is—but he did once in a while, especially if it was a document with complicated graphs or charts. He looked up when I stopped in the doorway, a hint of impatience in the crease between his eyes.

"There you are," he said, and placed the printout on the lab bench. "I need you back on duty as soon as possible," he began without expending any niceties, and I instinctively stood up straighter. Apparently empathetic and understanding McCoy was gone, replaced with the more familiar acerbic and let's-get-down-to-business-McCoy, which was fair, if somewhat jarring.

"Sounds like you'll be transferred to Vulcan in a couple of weeks, but until then there's plenty to keep you busy. We picked up some samples from Selippe Five last week that need to be analyzed. They have the beginnings of an epidemic on their lunar outpost, a new strain of hemorrhagic fever, and this could be crucial in a vaccine they're developing. After that," he rattled off, counting on his fingers, "M'Benga could use some help with prioritizing labs for the next round of crew physicals. Oh," he added, his glower darkening, "put Sanders, that new maintenance kid, first on the list." I was about to ask what the engineering tech had done to cross the doctor's temper, but he continued before I could. "And we're also completing a quarterly inventory report that needs to be timed to coincide with our stop at Supply Depot Alpha Twenty-Two three weeks from now, and—"

He stopped talking abruptly as I felt my eyes drooping. I tried without success to suppress a yawn that threatened to dislocate my jaw.

"You sleeping all right?" he asked, his irritated frown replaced with concern. With his swift transition from gruff to solicitous, I wondered if mental whiplash was an official diagnostic code in Starfleet, but reminded myself that this was his _modus operandi_.

"No, sir." I shook my head, trying to clear out the fuzziness of a nighttime of tossing and turning. "I think I'll get some coffee, if that's all right."

Before I could turn away to make my way to the replicator the next office over, he reached out to touch my arm, his eyes narrowed. "What's wrong? Worried about going to Vulcan? It'll be a bit of culture shock, I expect."

I shook my head again, recalling my discussion with Spock earlier that day, and the brief time he had spent in my head down on the planet. "No, not really. You know, I don't think Vulcans are nearly as cold and distant as most people seem to expect."

I thought a hint of a smile hovered around his eyes, but couldn't be sure. "I think you're right about that. Certainly not all of them, anyway," he said. "What is it, then? Nightmares again? Night terrors?" he asked.

"No. It's just quiet." I was suddenly self-conscious, for what reason I could not fathom, but managed a quick glance at him. "Too quiet. In my head, I mean," I stammered. I looked at the deck, then at the protein analyzer on the counter, before settling on a stack of lab manuals leaning against a storage cabinet. "Like something's missing," I added.

He pinned me with a stare so sharp I wanted to squirm. "It's still just you now?" he asked quietly.

I considered, then nodded. "Yes. Well, a small echo of Spock here and there, and a bit of Llyr, but that's fading quickly. I think..." I hesitated, groping my way through the dense thicket of memories that now crowded into my head, "I think there was always something there, something more, for as long as I can remember, and I didn't even realize it until it was gone."

"Ah, your invisible childhood friend we talked about, right?" he said, with a half smile. "It was LLyr all along, wasn't it?"

That felt right, clicking together like the final piece of a puzzle, as much as my mind protested at the possibility. "Yes, I think so." The thought of it was once horrifying and astonishing. "How could that happen?"

He shook his head slowly and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "There's still so much about neurology and interconnectedness and symbiotics we still don't understand, Tara. Just in Earth history, there are plenty of people who've claimed communion with a higher power: the Oracle at Delphi, the prophet Moses, Joan of Arc. And countless similar stories exist across the galaxy."

"But I've lost that." I wasn't proud of the way my voice broke when my throat tightened, but if he noticed, he pretended he hadn't.

"Yes, for better or for worse, and I imagine it'll take some time before you're comfortable with the silence in your head. You have some grieving to do. But the upside is, you get to write your story from here on, in your voice."

I wasn't sure what he meant by that and I couldn't read him at all even as he stood there right there in front of me, my newly-found telepathic abilities failing me entirely. He was silent for a long moment, looking into the distance with a faint frown, and I fought the urge to fidget, but he finally drew a deep breath and landed his gaze on me in a way that set off a red alert in the back of my head.

"Would you like to know?" he asked, and there was a gravity in his tone that was new to me, a searching in his eyes that unsettled me.

"Know what?" I thought my voice rang in my ears, like it was coming from underwater.

"The story of your past. Or, at least," he amended, "what we've found."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he said, still watchful as he spoke, "when I requested your medical records from Novlia Prime, I also asked for any records—without violating privacy rules, of course—from that time frame that could have been associated with yours. I found out that there was a shuttle crash reported just before you were discovered. Two adults, deceased, were recovered from the wreckage." He paused. "There's not a lot, but it might help you fill in some gaps."

I immediately grasped the implications of his statement. And as it sunk in, I felt myself become somewhat disconnected from my body, as if I were standing apart, observing myself, and the ordinary sounds of sickbay, the beeping and mechanical murmurs and clattering of trays and instruments and conversations back and forth in the next room, were suddenly foreign and distant.

"You can think about it. It's not going anywhere," he said after a moment, drawing me back into myself. "Or you can look at it later, alone, if you want. It's...well, the military report has some redacted info, but I didn't remove anything except the images, which I still have if you really want to see. So it may be—"

"No." I intended a strong, firm declaration, but it came out almost inaudible. "I want to see it now."

He nodded and motioned toward the doorway. "Come on, then."

I trailed him into his lab and he steered me to the desk there, then tapped at the monitor before moving out of the way. I settled into that hard plastic chair and tilted the screen down to my eye level.

"These are just the initial reports. There's more, from social services later on, if you want to read through those eventually. Take your time. I'll be in my office if you have any questions." He left the door open as he disappeared into the adjoining room.

It was all listed there neatly in front of me: two autopsy records, a hospital intake report, and a Novlia Space Command report. I touched the first one to bring it into focus.

 _Adult humanoid female of unknown species, no identification, no DNA match in Federation records, retinal scan unavailable...cranial and skeletal features indicative of aquatic evolutionary history….fractured skull, ruptured internal organs, second degree burns over sixty percent...cellular damage suggestive of chronic low-level radiation exposure...Cause of death: penetrating cranial injury. Manner of death: accident._

And then:

 _Adult humanoid male of Sol Three type, no identification, no DNA match in Federation record...ruptured aorta, fractured cervical spine...extensive thermal injuries. Cause of death..._

I looked away before finishing that report, a roaring in my head threatening to overtake me, then reached toward the monitor to flip to the next screen. There I found a sparse initial intake record, apparently never connected to the preceding autopsies until McCoy's digging around brought them together:

 _Juvenile humanoid female admitted through Emergency Services. Found unaccompanied in downtown district, no identification, no DNA or retinal scan match in Federation records, species unknown/mixed humanoid. Comminuted fracture of the right humerus, contusion to the left scapula, pulmonary injury indicative of smoke inhalation. Non-communicative, psych/anthro consult requested. Recommend remand to Novlia Sovereign Protective Services if guardian cannot be located._

Then finally, out of chronology, the local military police report that must have set all of this into motion, dated several days prior to the preceding reports, and written in the dry, impersonal prose of a soldier bureaucrat:

 _Craft first detected by remote sensors at [location redacted] at 2247, bearing [redacted]. No response to three comms requests from state aviation authority; craft approached restricted municipal airspace at 2302; tracking and response transferred to authority of Novu air defense at 2305. Per ComDef orders, two planetary defense drones mobilized and intercepted the craft at 2313. After refusing to respond to additional comm efforts on multiple channels, the shuttlecraft was targeted and downed by airborne missile. Shuttle wreckage was recovered at [location redacted] and turned over to [redacted] for further examination. No registry or identifying livery visible. Two deceased adult humanoids recovered and delivered to Novu Royal Hospital mortuary for autopsy and disposition. Security risk assessment medium pending complete investigation._

No mention of me in that report. I could only assume that my parents had good reason to enter local airspace without permission or identification, or had been unable to provide such for some reason. LLyr had expressed rage at my father; perhaps even at a distance of several lights years he had been able to channel his revenge into damaging or disabling the craft's navigation or communications systems.

And I also had no doubt now that I had landed on Novlia in that doomed shuttle. But how I was able to walk away before the authorities arrived and end up wandering around in the city and being discovered—that brief flash of memory that had come to me so suddenly back in the cave—would likely, I realized with a heaviness, forever be a mystery. I pushed the palms of my hands against my eyes, trying to ease the ache that throbbed and threatened tears that I felt I could not afford in this fragile state.

I was turning in my seat to leave before I lost all remaining dignity when I felt his hand land on my shoulder, and I froze.

"Fate smiled on you, Tara. That's what we used to say."

I nodded slowly, eyes still closed, _Accept it for now, for what it is,_ was the message that came through in his kind words. I brushed my hands over my face, cleared my throat, and gestured at the reports that still burned brightly on the monitor.

"They were shot down?"

He crossed his arms and tapped a data disk he held in one hand against his chin. "That's my interpretation, yes." He frowned at the display.

"But they—we—we were just trying to…" _What?_ I asked myself. _Escape? Seek asylum? Sneak through their borders illegally?_

He shrugged. "In some places and times, especially on border planets unaffiliated with a protective agency, there will always be a lot of tension and security measures around who can come and go."

That wasn't what was really bothering me, but he continued as if reading my mind.

"There's minimal suffering in crashes like these. They probably lost consciousness before impact, but if not, death would have occurred very quickly," he said.

His words had the feel of something well-practiced, but they weren't rote.

"That was just the beginning, though. It's still your story, Tara. You still get to write it."

I sat there for a moment, waiting until my breath slowed. "Right. That's the plan. Sir, I know I never thanked—"

He interrupted me, wagging a finger in front of my face and scowling.

"You know, Lieutenant, Chapel has had a helluva time wrangling your Leutscher virus mapping project into shape. Your lab notes are indecipherable, and I'm a doctor, not a cryptographer. You think you can find some time to sort things out back there after you get through the Selippe Five samples? I know Professor Desmarais at the Academy; you had him for your research practicum, right?" I nodded, but he had already turned away toward his office, muttering more to himself than to me. "If he saw the state of your documentation back there, he would be _mortified_ —" his words were cut off by the door that slid shut between us.

I blinked until my eyes were clear, smoothed my uniform tunic—still a little constricting after so many months out of it—took a deep breath, and went to look for Chapel, muttering, "Yes, sir, thank you sir," in his direction.

* * *

Stardate 6029

1900 hours

There was a particular tucked-out-of-the-way corner of the rec room, just behind an awkwardly-placed bulkhead, that Kirk had discovered early in his explorations of his ship so many years ago, and had over time begun to think of as belonging to him. His crew came to recognize it as such as well, granting unspoken ownership as his captain's rights, and over time in fact guarding his access to it jealously. Before long, someone—he never knew who, but he had his suspicions—had placed a collection of chairs there, not the wobbly but rigid ones from the conference rooms, but inviting wood and cloth chairs that must have been requisitioned by covert special order or traded in exchange for something valuable on a space station layover.

Seldom did he see crew members outside of his inner circle here, and if so, they were inevitably new to the ship, wandering around trying to get their bearings, and soon shepherded away by the more seasoned among his people. There was no resentment; it was acknowledged that their leader deserved a place outside of the formal, structured spaces of the workday or his cramped quarters to confer and relax with his closest officers.

And so it was that the captain found himself there this evening, after the series of bewildering and still-unplumbed recent events of the last few days, made even more uncomfortable by the seemingly-nonchalant reaction of his superiors. With no small degree of trepidation he had submitted his report on the events of Resliv Three to Headquarters, along with his decision on the official hearing and his recommendations for Solorio, and to his surprise and relief, all had been accepted with little pushback. After mulling over the response, he suspected the Powers That Be were just as eager as he was to put the whole mess behind them. Yet he was burdened with a sense of unsettled business; or perhaps it was just his lingering discomfort with how events had unfolded on that desolate, haunted planet.

"Jim." His CMO, having rounded the corner, stood in the shadows, holding objects with familiar contours in his hands. Kirk beckoned him over, and as the doctor drew near, he discerned the tumblers balanced on one hand and a stocky bottle of deep amber liquid in the other.

"This one's on me." McCoy sank into a chair and placed the bottle heavily on a side table, then the glasses beside with care. "I figured I owed you one. Maybe two."

Kirk gave him a weary smile. "I'll take you up on that." But he did not move yet to pour a drink, choosing instead to stare at the viewport, this one set to show only the simplified, friendly-for-human-eyes star stream.

"What's on your mind?" He heard the splash of the liquor into a glass, and then a clink as McCoy placed it on the table instead of drinking it, and pushed it toward him, fingers lingering for a half moment before he withdrew into the shadows and slouched against the back of the chair. The doctor's posture was a little off, he thought, then wondered if McCoy's shoulder was still bothering him.

Kirk rubbed the nape of his neck before he replied. "How is she?"

McCoy studied his profile and considered the deflection for a moment before responding. "Well, she'll be all right, with time and patience and some hard work, and I have no doubt that she's up to it. I talked with my contact at Starfleet Medical earlier today and she mentioned that the healer Spock recommended is highly sought after. I'm impressed—he must have pulled some strings."

Kirk nodded. "Good. And I suspect Spock has plenty of strings to pull, Bones." He picked up the glass and only then did McCoy pour one for himself and hold it there, in front of himself, but Kirk did not look away from the star stream.

"Mm hmm." McCoy replied. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it?" He rolled his glass between his hands and it clinked against the ring on his finger.

Kirk clutched his drink in his hands and leaned forward, the intensity of his emotion breaking through and disrupting his thoughts. "What's happening, Bones?" he demanded. "I know this business with Helen, her getting pulled into the dark side of Intelligence, that was an anomaly. But the mindset in certain parts of the Federation that fueled her actions, the isolationism, it's getting stronger out there. I thought we were on the way to finding a common ground, that our work was beginning to establish some sort of peace across our corner of the galaxy. I thought...I thought maybe we were starting to outgrow the posturing and the war games, but maybe that's just an illusion." His voice took on a wistful but bitter tone. "Maybe we're just doomed to continue forever tearing each other down, plotting our mutual destruction."

McCoy sat for a moment, quiet, absorbing before daring to respond. He didn't often see his friend, his captain, this despondent and wondered at the role that Helen and their unresolved history played in this reaction, and how to push through it without dismissing it. He drew a deep breath and imagined planting his feet squarely on firm ground.

"Jim, I think the universe will sort itself out, maybe in spite of what we do. It's messy and painful and scary sometimes, but hysteria and paranoia are not sustainable governing approaches long-term. In the end, cooler heads will prevail. Or," he said, before taking a great swallow of his drink and then wincing, "as my grandma used to say, _Don't go borrowin' trouble._ "

He heard a snort of laughter from Jim and some of the tension in the air drained away.

"As far as Helen and the lieutenant," he continued, "you're right that it's just a microcosm of what's going on out here," he said, gesturing toward the viewscreen. "But we'll figure these things out, and in the meantime, we continue on our own business, right? Showing people that there is goodness and hope, even if that means making decisions that don't necessarily feel safe in the moment." McCoy nudged Jim's glass with his thumb. "Now drink up. Doctor's orders."

Kirk gave him a sideways glance as he reached for his drink. "Why, Doctor, I think we'll make an optimist out of you yet."

"Shut up, Jim," he groused. "I have a reputation to maintain." He caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision and nodded at the figure who appeared at his side. "Spock," he gestured at a seat, "Have a drink."

"No, thank you, Doctor," the Vulcan replied as he returned McCoy's nod and turned to Kirk. "Good evening, Captain—and although I appreciate the offer, as you know, alcohol does not agree with my metabolism."

McCoy sighed. "I know that, Spock. I was just being neighborly."

Spock waved a hand in acknowledgement then sat gracefully, with his characteristic economy of motion, and steepled his fingers. "Captain, we have received notification from DS Three's personnel department that Doctor Noel bequeathed you her estate, which consists of five thousand, three hundred credits, and a collection of her personal journals."

"You're just the epitome of tact and good timing, Spock," McCoy muttered, and got only a nonplussed look from the Vulcan in response.

Kirk stared at Spock without speaking for a moment, then glanced down at his hands. "I see." A particularly dense cluster of stars on the viewport sent a flare of light across their sitting space and he fastened his eyes there, the flash illuminating a succession of conflicting emotions across his features. "Please have her journals held for me at the station, until we can return for our regularly-scheduled provisioning. Transfer the credits to the Federation Non-Affiliated Systems Disaster Relief Fund." He cleared his throat, then stood abruptly and went to the replicator slot on the wall behind their seats. He returned with a glass of water that he held in his hands for a moment, studying the faint ripples that the thrum of the warp engines sent across the surface of the liquid before placing it on the table alongside McCoy's glass.

"I'm sure you've both come to this conclusion, but after speaking again with Doctor Noel's commanding officer, it has been made clear to me that her actions were not sanctioned by Starfleet."

"She was acting in a rogue capacity, as we deduced?" Spock asked.

Kirk lifted his hands in a gesture of half-frustration, half-resignation. "Command is being unusually tight-lipped. But from what I can figure, her CO initially reported concerns about her behavior up the appropriate chain of command around the time of Solorio's disappearance. Then follow-up was delayed as he was temporarily sidelined with a special assignment, and Helen was quite skilled at concealing her actions and intentions from others. It was her assistant who relayed intel to the CO—and Uhura, then Chekov, incidentally. But for her assistant's attention to the situation, the outcome could have been far more grave."

"Any ideas about what set her off?" McCoy rattled the ice in his empty glass, eyed the bottle, but did not pick it up.

"Noel lost her brother, her twin and last remaining relative, in a border skirmish with the Klingons not too long ago; their parents died in a terraforming accident when they were quite young. But her brother's death seemed to trigger this unusual behavior, the escalating obsession with conspiracy and treason. It looks like Solorio was unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her decision to run away and jump onto Brodie's shuttle was just the catalyzing event that Helen's paranoia decided to latch onto."

"My money is on a brief psychotic episode, triggered by overwhelming grief," McCoy said. "We know she had a—" he hesitated, mindful of the need to choose his words with care, "a tendency toward fantasy and that may have made her vulnerable. I would guess that she and her brother developed an exceedingly close bond after the death of their parents, and the loss of that bond devastated her."

Kirk made a gesture of agreement but did not respond. He held out his glass, also empty now, and McCoy uncorked the bottle and splashed the warm amber liquid to the halfway point. Kirk raised the glass, drew a deep breath and, to the doctor's chagrin, two-thirds of it disappeared.

"Captain," Spock said, oblivious to his captain's flushed coughing, "I recommend placing a quarantine around Resliv Three pending further scientific and archaeological investigation. While the being known as Llyr seemed quite certain that he was the last remaining sentient life on the planet, we must be assured that any other lifeforms or entities residing there with potential psychic abilities are identified and assessed."

"Agreed." Kirk paused between sips of water before responding, his voice hoarse. "The planet itself also has some healing to do. I'll request a survey team be assigned for an extended analysis. At the very least, whatever Llyr was, his story and that of the people who were there, deserves to be discovered and documented." He slouched down in his chair and stretched his legs out, toes of his boots nearly touching the table legs. Spock, who had maintained some remoteness since McCoy's last rebuke, seemed to take this as permission to approach a new subject.

"Captain, I have sensed an uneasiness in your demeanor of late. I am concerned that whatever is weighing heavily upon you may affect our upcoming mission at Delnova Ruins. As you know, it is expected to be quite a delicate diplomatic task."

McCoy, who had raised his drink to his mouth, sputtered and placed it back on the table. "Really, Spock, don't ever go into therapy as a profession," the doctor rasped. "Or bartending, for that matter."

Spock gave him a scandalized look. "I shall keep your vocational advice in mind, Doctor."

Jim looked at the ceiling, then at his friends in turn with an air of exhaustion-fueled tolerance. "McCoy and I were just talking about how the decisions we make in our day-to-day reality out here, in the messy unpredictability of all of these strange new worlds, are more often than not at odds with what Starfleet Command would deem appropriate, or heavens forbid, at the very least even reflective of the Federation's stated mission. My uneasiness," he paused to study the liquid in his glass, "results from my attempt to reconcile those differences. I trust you will...advise me accordingly if you detect more soldier than diplomat in me at Delnova, Spock, as you always do."

"You know, sometimes things end badly, even with all the diplomacy in the galaxy," McCoy said, "but if we'd had more time, could we have negotiated a different outcome down there, with Llyr? Could—no," he stopped himself. "That's not fair. You're only human, Jim, and there were too many factors outside of our control there."

Kirk gave him a tired smile. "I wonder where the others of his kind are," he said softly. "Will they really come looking for him some day? What will they think when they find that he's gone and his planet is devastated?"

"They may not have to look for him, Jim. How many god-like or super-endowed beings have we dealt with in our travels?" Spock said. "Gary Mitchell and Elizabeth Dehner, Charlie, Apollo, Trelane, just to name a few. Trelane was taken back to his people and Apollo, at least, implied he would be rejoining his kind, whatever they were. If we are to accept that energy cannot be destroyed, we must accept the possibility that Llyr's lifeforce, or whatever you may call it—"

"His soul, Spock?"

"—whatever you may call it, Doctor, it may still be out there, and may once again find communion with his kind some day."

Kirk laughed so softly it was almost lost under the growing sounds of the crew gathering in the adjacent space. He glanced up at the chrono—day shift was an hour or two into their free time, and his people were beginning to filter into the rec room to join in whatever games, gossip, and other amusements kept them rested and ready. "Communion. I like that prospect, Spock. You know, there was an Earth woman long ago who said, 'Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.'"

"I suppose one or the other would be bad enough, Jim, but both together would be intolerable." McCoy leaned forward and gathered up the bottle and both glasses in his hands, sensing Kirk's introspection had reached its limits, but Kirk surprised him.

"Then let us hope that Llyr has found peace and some concordance with the universe." The words were offhand, yet reverent, and McCoy bit back the call-and-response baked into him from childhood, deferring to Spock instead.

"I believe that is all any of use can hope for and work toward, Captain."


	18. Epilogue

**Thanks to a note from an astute reviewer, I'm posting a short-follow up on two of our characters who I, unfortunately, left a bit unresolved!**

 _U.S.S. Enterprise_

 _Stardate 6092_

 _2200 hours_

The crew of the _Enterprise_ was enjoying a rare, quiet bit of interstellar meandering through the Alpha Quadrant. No planetary distress calls to answer; no border skirmishes to referee; no imminent novae to evacuate, diplomatic conflicts to mediate, or out-of-the-blue medical crises to manage. Just sailing along through the cosmos, just _boldly going_ for a bit, her crew taking a moment to breathe and relax and play and reflect.

Except for Leonard McCoy, of course. While looking forward to eventually settling into an evening of a nice medium rare steak, courtesy of a recent re-provisioning, and a few episodes from his new favorite collection of restored early twenty-first century holos that Joanna had sent him for his birthday last week, McCoy was currently fretting about overdue quarterly crew physicals, and building up a multi-faceted argument in his head for the captain as to why those requirements should be semi-annual, or even annual, despite Starfleet regs—well except for high-risk personnel such as engineering, maybe—but anyway, he spent half his time chasing down people who were late or no-shows for exams, and by the time he caught up with them it was time to start all over again, and it was an egregious waste of his time, dammit, since Jim had latitude to allow flexibility out here in the middle of nowhere, and as if he and his highly-skilled staff didn't have better things to do—

His internal rant was interrupted by the _beep_ of the comm unit on his desk. He stopped pacing and slapped the switch, irritated at the intrusion into his silent monologue.

"Yes, what is it?" he said tersely.

"Doctor McCoy, incoming transmission for you."

It was the third shift comms officer on the bridge, and he peered into the monitor at her unreadable face.

Up there, at the station that didn't quite feel as if belonged to her yet, the ship's CMO appeared on the miniature viewscreen that was set flush into the panel where Ensign Trel was currently managing all of the inter- and intra-ship communications, which constituted a surprisingly heavy volume even this late in the standard human diurnal cycle. The doctor seemed to be in Sickbay as he answered her hail.

His sigh before he responded was loud enough to cause her to flinch. "Yes, Ensign. Who is it?"

"It's Starbase Three, sir." Ensign Tren flicked at one of the buttons on her panel and looked at him wide-eyed and wary through the visual link. In her brief time aboard, she had been amply but unofficially warned of the various officers' temperaments and expectations aboard this ship—her first assignment—and sought most vigorously to contain the trembling she felt in her fingers and antennae at having to disturb the CMO at this late hour. He had seemed solicitous enough at her onboarding, but she had heard stories of his infamous temper and his fondness for the mysterious variation of human humor known as _sarcasm_.

"Yes, but who _is_ it, Ensign?" he repeated, unmistakable impatience creeping into his voice.

In his office, he regretted his sharp tone as her face flushed dark blue. She was new, this one. The previous third shift comms officer, Walker, had been rather precipitously but not unexpectedly transferred to Food Services at their recent stay on Starbase Twenty-One, and they had picked up this new ensign there as backup for Lieutenant M'ress. He swallowed his irritation and worked up a smile that he hoped, following his recent xenoduction training on Andorians, would fall somewhere appropriately between friendly and professional.

Her antennae twitched and she returned a cautious, brief smile. "Moment, sir," she murmured, studying her instrument panel. "Seems to be a public civilian code, sir," she said, her voice faint and sibilant, and he jammed frantically at the amplitude controls to increase the volume. "He says his name is Brodie, sir." Her voice echoed against the bulkheads now and he pressed the controls again to compensate before responding.

"I think they have the wrong number, Ensign—" he started, then broke off as the undeniable _ping_ of a salient association pricked at his memory. He cast back for the tidbit of recall that tugged there, and some distant neural overseer deep in his hippocampus plucked it out of one of the innumerable crowded pathways headed into long-term storage and placed it newly in his awareness, front and center. _Brodie...Brodie_. Right. Images he had seen of the man, after being brought back and released, had haunted his idle thoughts for a while, and now flashed before his vision again with renewed clarity. He winced.

"All right," he continued briskly, and nodded at the ensign, "thank you, go ahead and put him through." He stood behind his desk and gripped the seat back between his hands, leaning in for a closer view of the monitor.

"Aye, sir." Tren's bewildered face, listening piece pressed to the side of her head, shimmered away. She would spend the next few hours parsing their brief exchange, trying without success to tease out what had gone awry before the commander had suddenly proceeded with such a threatening expression and abrupt termination of their communication.

But there, in McCoy's private office, Brodie's face and shoulders slowly came into resolution on the monitor. He appeared to be seated at a comm cubby in an open-air shopping and food vending space that the doctor vaguely recognized from his brief time on the station. The sheerest violet-tinted shimmer behind him indicated that a privacy screen had been enacted around the area, an add-on expense in the space that was just large enough for an average-sized Federation humanoid to stand in comfortably. A pay-relay interface was situated off to one side and a wall of revolving adverts and nonstop chyrons filled the other. McCoy spied a Tellarite adult and child strolling past in the background, carrying out an animated conversation that was punctuated by much gesturing but thankfully muted by the screen, then he turned his attention to the caller.

The man was looking at him expectantly. "You're McCoy?"

He looked much better than the doctor expected. His beard, which had appeared reddish in the previous images, was now shot with gray, but he thought the biomed lab on Three had done an admirable job of growing replacement teeth that were indistinguishable from his natural counterparts. _Aftermarket parts,_ as the techs often called them, out of earshot of patients, of course. He had put on some weight, and looked clear-eyed and well-rested, and altogether lacking the horrific thousand-yard stare that had earlier made McCoy groan inside and curse Noel, not for the first nor last time.

McCoy dragged his chair out and sat down with a sigh, crossing his arms on the desk in front of him. "Yes, that's me. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Brodie—"

"I know who you are," he interrupted, not unkindly. "Solorio spoke of you. With a great deal of fondness," he added. Brodie's mouth quirked up and he nodded.

"You're her CO, then? That's what she said, anyway. I've put in for a bit here at Three and thought I might be able to catch you on a quick subspace. Glad you were around. They told me I couldn't talk to her?"

McCoy knew for a fact that a real-time subspace transmission halfway across the quadrant, even a "quick" one, was not a trivial matter, and would cost anyone a pretty penny, as grandma used to say. He supposed the life of a pirate— _no, smuggler,_ Tara had insisted—must reap some impressive tangible benefits. Before he could open his mouth to reply, Brodie leaned forward and his intense visage filled the screen.

"I thought you found her. So where is she?"

He hesitated only slightly more than a heartbeat. "She's in seclusion. On Vulcan."

The man's eyes widened and he sat up, his shoulders bulking up around his ears. "Vulcan! What's she doin' there?" he exclaimed. "Is it some sort o' punishment?"

McCoy suppressed a smile. "No. She's, ah…" He debated just how much he should or could tell this relative stranger, recalled how horrified Solorio had been upon learning of his treatment at Helen's hands, and relented. "She's undergoing some training. We expect her back aboard in a couple of months."

Brodie sat back and his brow smoothed. "Ach, well, I suppose I might reach out to her in a bit, then. Just to say hello."

"I think she'd appreciate that." He then wondered fleetingly if Solorio would come back from Vulcan, and her experience there, with a different idea of friendship or human connection, and it filled him with a deep stab of sorrow, or regret; he wasn't sure which of those to acknowledge first.

But on the viewscreen, a growing look of alarm was spreading across Brodie's face. "But if Tara is on Vulcan, then where is her Druocaan f'larioenn?"

McCoy blinked at him and wondered briefly if the man was having a stroke. "Her _what_ , now?"

Brodie's eyes narrowed and took on a glower. "I gave her a f'larioenn cloak, McCoy. Before I left her there on that gods forsaken place. To keep her warm and keep her company, you know. And that wee creature couldn't survive on Vulcan, in such a hot and dry environment. So I doubt Tara took her along."

Another memory bloomed without forewarning in McCoy's mind, clear and present as if they were there again on that cursed planet: in the cave, when she was in the midst of the worst of it, and he was just trying to keep her present and grounded so they could get out of there, and he'd noticed the thing curling around her shoulders, and the way her eyes had settled when she'd touched it.

"Oh, that. Yeah. What did she call it? Emmalin. Yes, I remember now." He frowned, trying to recall where he had last seen it. "She had it with her, going into that other space, when we landed there—" he realized that wouldn't mean much to Brodie, and changed course. "I don't remember what happened to it, to be honest." He shrugged, irritated with himself that he hadn't noticed its absence earlier.

Brodie waited a beat, brow furrowed in incredulity, before he responded. "You just left her there? You left her behind?" he asked tersely. McCoy's eyebrow went up. Brodie's use of the pronoun confused him for a minute.

"Well, ah, I'm not sure what happened, Mister Brodie. We were a little...well, distracted with trying to stay alive and contain a nuclear meltdown while wrangling with yet _another_ disgruntled lesser godlike being"—he thought back to Kukulkan, the events still fresh, and rolled his eyes—"this one with a nasty case of malignant narcissism; but yes, I suppose you could say we likely left it behind." He began to wonder where this conversation was going, and whether he would ever get to his evening of steak and bourbon and any random holovid indexed in his new collection of vintage _House, M.D._

A look of abject horror spread across Brodie's features, and McCoy became aware of a growing sense of foreboding lurking at the edge of his consciousness.

"You...left her _behind_." Brodie repeated, a statement rather than question now, his tone at once aghast and accusatory.

McCoy flipped frantically back through his snapshot memories of their time on Resliv III, trying to recall the last time he'd seen the...the well, what should he call it? thing? around Solorio's shoulders. He thought it was just before they had stepped across that boundary, when they'd left reality behind in favor of the heady allure of a pristine new world that wasn't really there after all.

"Well, ah...it wasn't intentional, I assure you, Mister Brodie," he said cautiously. But Brodie's agitation became apparent in his rapid breath and the sheen of perspiration that appeared on his forehead, and McCoy began to wonder with alarm about his relative stability, after all.

"But she...she'll die of loneliness, Doctor."

 _She? Oh no_ , the still, small voice in the back of his head whispered as the smuggler's meaning finally began to sink in. "Do you mean—" he cleared his throat. "Are you implying that the thing is, ah, sentient?" _Quasi-sentient. Sentient-responsive_ , was what Solorio had said, her words floating back in his memory now.

" _Thing_?" Brodie said in obvious disgust. "Why is any lifeform we don't understand always called a _thing_? What does _sentient_ or _alive_ even mean these days, Doctor?"

He had some firm beliefs about _that_ topic, but it was, McCoy had to concede, sometimes a point of contention. It occurred to him that if Brodie had stayed the course in the Academy, instead of getting tossed out for a juvenile joy ride across the Bay as his records indicated, the man would have made a more-than-capable Starfleet officer.

"Well, I suppose it, ah, _she_ , might still be there, somewhere, on the planet. It's hasn't been that long. She may have survived—"

But Brodie was having nothing of McCoy's attempts at placation.

"She needs affection," Brodie thundered, "and she needs companionship, McCoy!"

The doctor fought the urge to lean away from the monitor. He took a calming breath before responding.

"Mister Brodie," he said gently, "If possible, if your medical and legal situations permit, I would recommend that you depart for Resliv III, and initiate a search for the, for," he fumbled momentarily, "for Ms. Solorio's companion animal. Being. Creature. If you could locate her and return her to the lieutenant, I'm sure there would be a great deal of gratitude from both parties."

Brodie's gaze shifted sideways and took on a thoughtful aspect.

"Maybe a short trip out there, if you have the means—" McCoy ventured, but Brodie cut him off.

"Starfleet has expunged my criminal records, and has restored my shuttlecraft with the newest engine and shielding technology. I most certainly have the means. In addition," he gave McCoy a conspiratorial look, "they have agreed to allow me to continue working along my established, shall we say, _shipping routes_ , without interference, and indefinitely, if I agree in return to drop any charges of unwarranted detention and severe treatment. So I may leave at any time to investigate potential areas of interest. Including Resliv III."

McCoy considered what he knew of the man's history alongside Starfleet's offer, and decided with a heavy heart that in this case, discretion was the better part of valor. He gave Brodie a half-salute and smile. "That's wonderful. I am sorry, by the way. For what Helen, er, Doctor Noel did to you, and I wish you the best of luck, Mister Brodie."

Brodie nodded in response, then seemed to hesitate before responding. He looked at McCoy with a pensive expression, and sighed, then said, "She...well, she just reminded me a bit of my niece, I think. I guess I felt a little guilty about leaving her to fend for herself there. Maybe this will make some amends, you know?"

McCoy nodded. "Yeah, that can happen sometimes. I understand, Brodie, I really do. Fair winds and following seas, sir."

* * *

 _U.S.S. Enterprise_

 _Stardate 6158_

 _0200 hours_

Her dreams are more peaceful these days, and for the most part follow the paths of the wonderfully mundane dream-trips on which most humanoids embark in their sleep: processing and consolidating waketime experiences, synthesizing patterns and memories into longer-term storage, perhaps the occasional transport back to a particularly vivid or frightening childhood episode; all normal and most unremembered upon waking. The enormous towering specter who had stalked her, infusing her nights with rage and terror, does not return.

Once in a while, though, her sleeping brain finds reason to betray her. She finds her dreamself back on that bone-numbingly cold and gray planet, alone and hopeless; or wandering the noisy and crowded streets of Novlia Prime, alone and tiny and injured; or on Vulcan, in the early days, alone and overwhelmed with the revisiting of her grief and the intensity of new connections; and she awakens with a start and a gasp and a roiling mess of emotion.

When this happens, the little creature she calls Emmalin—which the creature tolerates because it is quite fond of who it calls The One Who Thinks Out Loud—is always sleeping there next to her on her bunk. It curls up more closely to her and thinks to her she is _not_ alone and never _shall_ be alone again. And as great ship they dream upon sails into the stars, they both find a quiet and safe sleep.


End file.
